


these amber words on our fingertips

by jmcats



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Deaf Character, Dirty Talk, Domestic Fluff, Kid Fic, M/M, Teacher Liam, a bit smutty, art dealer Zayn, body issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-03 07:56:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 69,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4093060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jmcats/pseuds/jmcats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>'He’s not getting attached, he swears.  There’s no point.'</i>
</p><p>(Re: Zayn's life in London is about one thing — making life perfect for his son.  He's still finding himself in this city, with all of the noise and left behind dreams.  He needs to focus and Liam is, well, distracting.  He's <i>different</i>.  Zayn's always liked that word.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to [Sam](http://zappowziamfeelsbomb.tumblr.com), [Sanya](http://thebarbershopquartet.tumblr.com/), [Aimee](http://dramaa-llama.tumblr.com/), [Ashley](http://liamzayn.co.vu/), and [Noel](http://roseaque.tumblr.com) for helping me with this, all the support, advice, and generally listening to me whine about this fic for two months. This piece has been pretty massive for me.
> 
> This fic is loosely based on several prompts: [this one](http://nwtpayne.tumblr.com/post/112595220019/cool-single-dad-art-dealer-and-gallery-owner) and one someone sent me months ago about writing a kid fic where the child had a disability: _hearing impairment_. I hope I did them some justice!
> 
> I did some research but I know all of my facts about certain topics in this fic are a bit off. Forgive me for any mistakes. I tried to make it all fit into this universe I created.
> 
> This fic is a bit long so I broke it into two chapters. I hope it's not too slow or repetitive. I refuse to spoil anything else about the fic here so... enjoy? x

 

 

“You’re a right mess, Malik. An absolute nightmare.”

His lips quirk almost instantly, this jagged and crooked smile that’s all teeth and the press of a pink tongue against the back of them. He keeps his head bowed, shuffling through papers and concept boards on his desk. The spill of gold from a hovering London sun is barely hidden by shredded up silver clouds today. It flicks thin bars of canary through the large window behind him, scratching at all the surfaces of his office –

The rolling chair behind him, the mostly stuffed bookcase in a corner of the room, the newly framed canvases Josh brought by this morning. Scraps of leftover tangerine shine on his minimalist desk (because it was a _bargain_ and he refused the ridiculously large one Simon offered him when he got the job) and speckle in prism squares on an opposite bookcase filled with his favorite graphic novels and Iron Man figurines. Wavy patterns of fuzzy sun stream along the carpet that he loves to stomp over in his bare feet when no one is watching.

This place that is not meant to be his home but it has been for nearly two years now.

First in his class at some knockoff Oxford university, studying art history and graphic design, and he’s here – in London. Some wishing pond where dreams die – one copper piece at a time.

Twenty-five with some dumb luck job as an art dealer for Simon Cowell with those dreams of something else drowning impatiently at the bottom of the pond, covered in silver and bronze.

Zayn blinks up, licking at his own grin while Caroline leans in the archway of his office.

Her smile is nothing less than cheeky, as it always is when she watches him struggle. She toys with an imitation pearl necklace, chewing her gum softly, winking at him when his shoulders finally drop.

Zayn goes slack, rolling his eyes. He pushes all of the papers away before groaning. He’s not even certain what he’s searching for anymore. It’s just a collection of madness, his mobile buried somewhere beneath the wreckage.

It’s just another aspect of his life sitting like the aftermath of a typhoon. No survivors.

“Am I truly this dreadful?” he wonders, half-asking himself rather than Caroline.

She grins, pushing into the office, shrugging carelessly.

“Not really,” she replies before he exhales his frustration. “A bit of a mess but you’ve got potential.”

Zayn huffs off a clipped laugh, lips tricked into a wider smirk.

She always does that to him – disarms him. Whispers jokes when he’s too tight to uncoil properly. Pinches his hip to rattle him during meetings. Makes goofy faces in the lift when all he wants to do is stare at his shoes or the LED lights from floor to floor.

Caroline is his catalyst and he’s not certain how he’s survived in London this long without her.

“Devine has gotten better,” she comments, stroking lazy fingers along the large paintings on display near his desk.

He gives a quick nod, wrecking fingers through his thick, loose hair. Inky dark strands slide down into his eyelashes before he scoops them out. He considers tying it into a knot, a band already stretched around his wrist, waiting.

“He’s a terror when he can’t paint,” Zayn sighs, wincing when his fingers get caught in his hair. “Fucker kept ringing me up in some mad fit for a chat a month ago. Half after midnight, every night. Said he was bloody shit at painting and was gonna go join some rock band as a drummer. I called ‘im daft and hung up on ‘im.”

Caroline shoots him a cheeky smirk over her shoulder.

“He must not know how much you fancy your sleep?”

“Must not,” Zayn grins, dragging the edge of his thumb across his lower lip. “Wanker.”

Caroline rolls her eyes, giggling. She turns on her heels, digging them into the carpet, shuffling all the way up to his desk.

“Oi, don’t go ruining this suit now,” she scolds with a half-smile, smacking at his hands. “Neither of us can afford such posh wardrobe on our salaries.”

Zayn exhales softly, chewing on his smile while she fixes his cuffs.

It’s true. He hates admitting it – all of his schooling and sleepless nights just to be an art dealer barely able to afford Caroline as an assistant. Pulling in enough pounds to afford a modest flat just outside Canary Wharf.

Honestly, this office and this _borrowed_ designer suit and the cheap view of London’s skyline is just a constant reminder – he’s not quite the lad he dreamt about being back in Bradford.

“Hey,” Caroline whispers, a soft smile on her lips, careful fingers toying with the buttons on his cuffs. “Don’t go getting in a mood on me, Malik. You know how you get.”

“I _don’t_ ,” Zayn pouts, dropping his chin.

(He knows. He’s always sort of known – the way he closes off the world. Burrows into his thoughts. That one kid in class, always sitting in the corner, drawing in the margins of his textbook, daydreaming.

The one that needed the quiet more than the noise.)

“Liar,” she teases, knocking loose hair out of his eyes.

“Shut it,” he huffs, his lips already flinching upward when she snorts.

“You’re _young_ , love,” she says, gently, the way she always does when she’s trying to nudge him out of his thoughts. “And you’re brilliant. Fantastic. You’ve got a bloody great eye for art and the gallery is lucky to ‘ave you.”

Zayn sniffs, biting at his sore bottom lip. He watches her hands brush away the lint from his shirt before his skin turns warm. His muscles finally relax and he’s calm again.

His fingers reflexively squeeze at her hips, keeping her steady, a Morse code of _‘thank you’_ that his tongue can’t carry.

Caroline smirks. “Don’t forget you’ve got lunch with those students from the University of the Arts on Thursday. And a meeting with a few local artists Friday morning,” she says, her voice turning stern, business-like so swiftly. She wrinkles her brow for a moment. “Dinner with Mr. Cowell – “

“Simon,” Zayn laughs, ignoring the way she roughly smacks his arm.

“ _Mr. Cowell_. Have manners, you,” she scolds but her lips are twitching into a cheeky smile. “Dinner with him on Thursday. Early. He has plans – “

“He always has plans. S’what makes him so bloody important ‘round here.”

Something warms all over Zayn’s skin, this comfortably lazy feeling that Zayn associates with being high before mid-terms and Louis Tomlinson.

Louis strides into the office in a smartly fitted suit, scruffy fringe falling in his eyes. The sleeves of his Topman are shoved to his elbows, erratic sketches of ink standing bold against his tan skin. There’s a ridiculous pair of glassy Aviators hanging from his undone collar, pink lips cocked into an arrogant smile just before he flops down into Zayn’s chair.

Zayn rolls his eyes when Louis kicks his feet up on the desk – scuffed up Vans, ankles crossed.

It’s one of the many things Zayn loves about Louis: he’s a fucking _rebel_ for no reason.

He’s far from those other typical London boys filling up Knightsbridge. Even with all of the money and the sleek car, he’s still some lad from Doncaster playing pickup games of footy on the weekends, burning down cigarettes in the back alley in a wrinkled button-up.

Louis is a middle finger to corporate expectations and Zayn’s madly in love with that.

“S’also what makes Simon such a dick, too,” Louis adds, reclining in Zayn’s chair.

Clips of the sun run brightly over his grin, the thick stubble on his chin, the shards of green in his blue eyes.

“Don’t be rude,” Caroline admonishes, giggling into her shoulder.

Louis waggles his eyebrows, shrugging. “If you can’t say those sorts of things about your step-dad, who can?”

“Nobody,” Zayn warns, half-grinning, leaning in to flick the tip of Louis’ nose.

Louis throws uncoordinated punches at him and nearly topples out of the chair when Zayn rears back with a mocking laugh.

“Twat,” Louis mumbles, slouching.

“How are things at the palace?” Zayn teases, scooting away to scan over Josh’s new pieces –

(some splattered fest of acrylics meant to be London at night and another of a mermaid – or at least Zayn _thinks_ that what it is.)

“I set fire to one of his fucking portraits the other night,” Louis sighs, disinterested. “The dick told me mum I was expressing my artistic side and bought me a new lighter.”

“Tragic,” Zayn mocks, grinning over his shoulder.

Louis lifts his eyebrows lazily, sputtering. “He’s just trying to win me over before the summer so I’ll watch me sisters while he jets off to Madrid or summat. No fucking way.”

“But you love them,” Zayn notes and Louis’ jaw snaps shut because, well, it’s true.

(Louis adores his sisters, his infant younger brother too.   But he’s always in one constant mood: _piss Simon off_.

It’s unbearable some days but at least Louis is steady with it.)

“Horrible,” Caroline sighs, straightening out all of the papers on Zayn’s desk, swatting Louis’ feet down.

“Why do you bother?” Zayn wonders, rocking on his heels.

“Because it’s fun,” Louis shrugs, pursing his lips. “And he’s always been a shit step-father, anyway.”

“By your definition,” Zayn smiles.

Louis scowls, crossing his arms like a petulant child seconds from a tantrum. “Money does not replace quality time, mate,” he argues.

“You didn’t say that when he bought you the Mercedes,” Zayn counters, still smiling teasingly over his shoulder.

“I wrecked it a week later.”

Zayn scoffs out a laugh, tipping his head back, feeling the length of it spread through his chest. “Because you were fucked out your mind on whisky sours, bro.”

“I was celebrating beating my highest score on Candy Crush, fuck off,” Louis says with a barking laugh, settling into the cheap leather of Zayn’s chair. “And if you’re quite finished – “

“M’not,” Zayn grins and ignores the way Louis flips him off from the corner of his eye.

“Oi, quit being a fucking prick,” Louis exhales, jostling his feet back onto the desk when Caroline scoots away.

She narrows her eyes at him, silently scolding him and Louis gives her a halfhearted shrug, pleading out an innocent smile she rolls her eyes at.

(Louis is charm and amusing arrogance disguised as a sticky smile – the kind children wear after stealing candies before dinner.

Caroline has been immune to it as long as Zayn has known them and it’s probably the thing he adores most about her.)

Louis sighs restlessly, tipping his head back into the filter of sun, fluttering his eyes closed. “C’mon, bro,” he grins, stretching. “Let’s skip out on this bullshit. Drive down to Soho. Tapas on me, mate.”

Zayn’s teeth scrape over his grin before he shakes his head. He nicks his phone from the desk, unlocking it, smiling down at his background (a crooked grin with a missing tooth, cherry cheeks, scrunched eyes), the flashing time.

“Can’t,” he sighs, reaching across the desk to steal Louis’ sunglasses. “I’ll be late for the Tube and – “

Louis’ lips instantly cock into a soft, genuine smile. He nods gently.

“S’that time already?”

Something loose, warm curls through Zayn’s chest. It sinks deep into his blood until his heart hammers loudly at the thought –

“Yeah,” he breathes, carding fingers into his hair to scoop it out of his eyes. “It is.”

“Hurry now,” Caroline insists, a hand on the small of his back, roughly shoving him towards the door. “Don’t stick ‘round this place for us.”

“Or for _me_ ,” Louis whines.

Zayn giggles, snatching up his leather jacket from the settee in the corner.

“Tell that monster I’m gonna beat him at that bloody FIFA the next time I see ‘im!” Louis calls. “He’s a bloody cheater, that one.”

Zayn smirks down into the collar of his jacket, shrugging into the sleeves, sniffing at the material – cigarettes and coffee and home.

The scent of a bedroom he barely sleeps in.

“You’re hopeless, Tomlinson,” Caroline sighs and Zayn can hear Louis’ laugh echo all the way down the hallway towards the lifts, tucking his own smile behind his teeth while his heart rabbits out of control in his chest.

(Sunken dreams buried under bronze and silver and Zayn doesn’t mind as long as he has Louis and Caroline to pull him out of the water.)

 

##

 

Zayn has learned to love the jolt of the Tube, the hum of it under his feet. The overcrowded sensation at this hour inside the train – stuffed with uni students, early business travelers, tourists. The flash of shadows scratching grey all over the tunnels and the flickering overhead lights.

It’s his only way around the city – the Underground. From his flat to the gallery every morning to a small brick building in Hertfordshire daily.

Zayn steals the same corner seat on one of the cars. He stays huddled to himself, large Beats headphones swallowing up his ears, scrolling through messages on his mobile in one hand, a half-empty sketchbook in his lap.

(It’s just another hopeless thought he’s given up on – drawing.

Mapping out the scenery in charcoal, inking silly comic book characters on blank pages, studying the lines of the city with his pencil.)

This familiar rattle picking up in his heart, thumping out of syncopation with the music in his ears. Anticipation. This sugar rush on the tip of his tongue, a numbness vibrating through his fingertips. That sort of warmth he can’t get from Louis or a cigarette or London or – _anything_ , honestly.

It leaves him dizzy and comfortable, slouching in his seat, watching each stop pass in a blur.

Almost home.

So close to the one thing that keeps him from spinning out of orbit.

Zayn soothes half of his smile, sucking his lower lip under his teeth, absently thumbing through another message from Louis while gazing out one of the windows.

(Unconsciously, he times his heartbeat to the stutter of the music and lets the anticipation stir in his blood.

This _‘almost home’_ feeling – no matter where he is in England.)

 

##

 

Zayn’s lips quirk up at the view of the old brick building from the car park. It’s nothing like the worn down school he remembers from Bradford with chalk on the sidewalks and broken brick and yellowing windows. It feels different and he’s never quite been able to put a finger to it but –

The sky stretches high above him like a bluebird’s wing. Everything tastes like spring – like early rain clouds and evergreen and fresh marigolds. The thin grey clouds temper off for a roll of white nimbus, wavering like newly spun cotton candy. There’s still a nice chill to the air, enough for him to pull his leather jacket closed.

His lips twist into a crooked smile at all of the familiar parents gathered in the car park – Jade with her sweet yellow sundress, Nick always checking his watch while leaning against his shiny Jeep. Paddy standing tall and broad in all black like a club bouncer while Ellie looks dazed, twirling her lightning white hair around her fingers.

Zayn stands in a dying reef of bluish smoke from his cigarette and he keeps promising himself he’ll quit, one of these day. He’ll toss out his last pack and spare his lungs just for –

The last bell rings and a flood of schoolchildren flood the pavement seconds later, screaming and laughing like they can taste the freedom. The temporary escapism channeled through their lungs. It fills Zayn’s blood, that familiar feeling of being five years old and wanting nothing more than an hour of Power Rangers on the telly and his mum’s cooking.

He grins into the sleeve of his jacket, couching out the last of his Marlboro, stubbing the half-finished ciggy with the toe of his boot. He watches all of the children stomp onto yellow buses, scampering up to their parents with toothless smiles. The anticipation turns into adrenaline just before –

Zayn trains his eyes on the little boy running up to him. The sharp features of his face, those crinkles right around his burnt caramel eyes and the helpless stain of pink always high on his cheekbones. Soft hair falling occasionally in his eyelashes. He stumbles a little, his Spider-Man backpack too big for him, the straps falling off his shoulders.

The oxygen turns into dopamine in Zayn’s cells and he can’t look away –

He doesn’t ever want to.

Zayn crouches down to meet the boy halfway with a hug, wrinkling his nose with tiny arms squeeze his neck a little too tight.

“Sameer,” he whispers, low, breathing it into the boy’s thick hair.

He soothes a big hand over a small spine, sniffing at that vanilla bean shampoo Zayn always lathers their hair with and –

Zayn pulls back to admire splatters of drying, cracked paint all over Sameer. A slash of orange across his cheek, flecks of green up his forearms, a smear of blue across his forehead. There’s yellow in his hair, tiny drops like falling stars caught on the strands.

He’s an absolute mess and Zayn can’t quiet the laugh that curdles from his ribs. He drags his hand through Sameer’s hair, watching the way Sameer’s small nose wrinkles with a raspy laugh.

Gentle teeth bite down softly over his lower lip while looking down through his eyelashes at Sameer. He watches Sameer curl fingers into his shirt, wrinkling the starched cotton, tiny flicks of pink paint hanging off his eyelashes.

Zayn knocks Sameer’s chin up, grinning. He pulls back enough to admire this boy – _his_ boy. The soft skin around his cheeks, pink lips sliding into a crooked smile. Wide eyes like Saturn’s rings and that awkwardly shy look smoothed into his expression.

_‘Alright?’_ Zayn signs to Sameer, waiting a beat before Sameer slowly nods. _‘Good day at school?’_

Sameer gives him a quick shrug, chewing on his lip.

_‘No trouble?’_

Sameer’s cherry lips (so familiar, nothing like Zayn’s) shift into a small smirk before he signs, _‘Good day, baba.’_

Zayn rolls his eyes, laughing under his breath, carding a heavy hand through Sameer’s hair again. He’s so much like Zayn when he was younger with strains of someone else – someone Zayn never bothers to think about anymore.

Someone Zayn doesn’t want to think about because, well, he doubts she thinks about them.

Sameer blinks rapidly at Zayn, raising his brow curiously, lips still quirked into a half-smug grin like he knows Zayn’s overthinking everything. It’s one of a million things Zayn loves about him – this small ability to read through Zayn. To spot all of his defenseless moments.

So aware of the world even if he’s been living through it without a sense of hearing since he was an infant –

Zayn sucks in a quick breath, shaking his head at Sameer. He flicks the tip of Sameer’s nose before signing, _‘Alright, be quiet, you.’_

Sameer snickers, shoving back between Zayn’s arms, snuggling into his chest, inhaling deep. It’s like a kick back – like a rocket stuttering off extra exhaust. His heart swells too large behind his ribs and Zayn presses his lips to Sameer’s hair for a moment.

“Missed you,” he whispers, hoping Sameer can sense the edge of his words without hearing them.

“Hey. There you are.”

Zayn almost misses the squeak of strainers pounding over the pavement, the ragged breaths, the heavy shadow wavering over them before he looks up.

He stumbles a little when he blinks up at this boy hovering over them. At the soft tan skin, the large eyes that look the color of iced lattes from this angle. A shy hand coming up to press along the nape of a smooth neck, his thumb scratching around a caramel-sweet birthmark. The white Henley stretching all around his muscles, the expanse of his chest, sleeves rolled all the way up to his elbows and exposing neat dark ink all around one forearm.

There’s paint everywhere – a messy spectrum across the cotton of his shirt and splatters on his joggers, fading smears across his cheeks. It’s a war of yellow and blue and Zayn doesn’t mean to _stare_ but –

“Um, hi,” the boy says, this achy, raw baritone voice against the noise of shouting children.

Zayn swallows, letting Sameer pull back. He pushes to his feet, dusting off his knees, cocking an eyebrow at the boy. The boy doesn’t startle and Zayn instantly feels something relax in his muscles.

“He ran off so quick and,” the boy exhales, still rubbing his neck, rocking on the heels of his high tops. “I barely blinked and his, um, the interpreter – “

“Mary,” Zayn inserts, smiling fondly. “Ms. Byrne.”

The boy nods quickly, chewing along his candy red bottom lip, making it look soft and full. It’s _distracting_ and Zayn huffs a quick breath before the boy adds, “Yeah, yeah. Right. Didn’t have a chance to get ‘im properly cleaned up or anything. Sorry about that.”

“S’fine,” Zayn says, a half-smirk on his lips when he glances down at Sameer still spotted in paint. “He seems happy.”

“I hope so.”

Zayn flicks his eyes up, catching the tilt of the boy’s head, the way the sun catches at the right corner of the sky to make this boy’s smile so damn charming. Inviting. All of his stubble looking gold and there’s a constellation of pink freckles across the bridge of his nose, laughter lines rimming the corners of his eyes.

“Um, oh, right. I’m Mr. Payne. Well, Liam, actually,” he says, shoving a hand at Zayn, still looking slightly sheepish.

Zayn’s lips quirk a little higher, something unsettling pulsing through his veins – the pound of a familiar feeling he hasn’t attached to in too long.

“Zayn,” he replies, a lazy shrug of his shoulders when he shakes Liam’s hand.

(Long fingers curling around his skin. They’re warm. Soft like pushing through early December snowflakes. Just the edge of callous at the tips and rough knuckles and _strong_.)

“Zayn Malik,” he sighs, keeping his voice low, blinking down at their hands.

“ _So_ ,” Liam drags out, lips smoothing sideways and wide, “you’re Sameer’s older brother?”

Zayn snorts, pulling his hand away (already dreading the way his pulse picks up at the thought of feeling that soft, sweaty touch again) to slide it over Sameer’s head. He clears the rasp from his throat, inhaling quickly.

“I’m his _baba_ ,” Zayn replies, trying to school the defensive sternness from his voice. “His father.”

(This part always feels like the heaviest – the looks he gets from people, that awkward moment, the way he feels like sliding into a thick armor to protect Sameer from everything.)

Liam blinks at him for a second, chewing his lip. The muscles in his forearm twist as he squeezes at his neck.

“Oh, um, right,” he stutters but not in that shocked way Zayn is so used to. Instead, it’s bashful, this embarrassed wobble to his voice that’s indescribably endearing.

(Zayn thinks this boy, who doesn’t look much younger than him and smiles like he’s seen more of the world than Zayn ever will, is maddeningly irritating in the way you feel when you have your first crush – that pulse of your heart that you can never quiet.)

“He, uh, looks like you. And, like – not that you couldn’t properly pull off that brilliantly fit older brother thingy and, well.”

Liam exhales loudly, cheeks pulsing like pink suns. He blinks up at the sky, his smile horribly wide before he flushes all the way down his neck. It makes all of the flecks of paint stand out on his skin and Zayn coughs out a laugh at him.

“S’alright,” Zayn says between giggles. “Student-teacher?”

Liam wrinkles that space between his eyebrows when he looks at Zayn. He raises an eyebrow, pouting. “Teacher,” he counters, puffing his chest a bit, broadening his already wide shoulders. “Well, _substitute teacher_. For now.”

Zayn chews softly at a corner of his lower lip, trying to bite his smile off his mouth. He watches the way Liam looks like the kind of kid who always wants to prove himself – strong shoulders and his chin cocked up but, under the edge of the sun, all of his faults shine through too. The rapid blink of his eyes, the soft tug of his lower lip, nervous hands never knowing what to do. Rocking on his heels constantly and trying to hide the way he’s constantly blushing or grinning like mad. For no reason.

That _‘just because’_ kind of smile that Zayn has never seen enough of to really know how acutely beautiful it is.

“I’m subbing for Ms. Nelson, right now. Art class,” Liam explains, glancing around. “She’s out for the rest of term with a hip injury. Dancing or summat.”

Zayn nods slowly, shifting fingers through Sameer’s hair until he feels tiny fingers loosen their hold on the hem of Zayn’s shirt. Sameer’s not quite adept at reading lips ( _not yet_ ) but he knows his son is trying to, watching them carefully.

“He’s so well-behaved,” Liam grins. He flashes Sameer a crooked grin, exhaling a laugh when Sameer darts his eyes away. “A bit shy, sometimes. But, like, he’s properly good at art. Very, um, _artistic_? S’that the right word?”

Zayn strangles the laugh at the back of his throat, nodding quickly with his sharp teeth bearing down on his lip.

“A bit like me,” he mumbles, cocking his head to stare down at Sameer. Dirty trainers are dragging along the gravel and his bag hanging off his shoulders.

Liam hums appreciatively, cautious fingers lifting to skim along the tattoos stitched over Zayn’s forearm. His fingertips graze over the skin, against the hairs, a tickling glow left behind.

“I c’n, like, I can tell,” Liam says, quickly snatching his hand back when Zayn follows the trail of his fingers. “Sorry.”

Zayn snorts, shaking his head. “S’fine. Loads of people stare at ‘em.”

“Loads of people?” Liam chokes out, his skin flushing when Zayn cocks up an eyebrow. “I mean, ‘course they do. ‘Cause, like, they’re _there_. I mean – “

Zayn inhales quickly, curving his mouth. Liam goes quiet, this awkward silence wadding between them, dense and almost visible.

Liam clears his throat softly, lifting his brow into tiny wrinkles like a low tide. “Studied music, actually, while at uni. Buckled down for me GCSE’s and got into Durham. Just finished up me studies a year ago and got lucky with a teaching job locally. But they needed someone to fill in for art studies – “

“You’re into music?” Zayn wonders, half-ignoring the part where Liam has no background in art.

(Because Zayn spent enough time at university studying and breathing art and he doesn’t know why he bothers but – )

Liam gives him a sheepish nod, tilting his head.

“Proper into production and stuff. Composing. Shit like that,” he says, quickly cupping a hand over his mouth, cheeks freckling pink.

Zayn grins. “Shit like that,” he repeats, a little firmer, ignoring the looks he gets from passing parents.

(He’s never bothered with being something other than some lad from Bradford, riding a wave of pure fucking luck with a cigarette tucked behind his ear, leather jackets and heavy boots – the kid all the mums glared at because of his tattoos and accent.

He thinks, absently, they all think he’s just some punk. Some arsehole trying to fit into a suit and a London dream.

Some undeserving lad, a single father with a son who lost his hearing before he when he was barely a year old. Just after speaking his first few words.

It’s all so – he prefers not to think about it, actually.)

Sameer yawns softly, turning his face into Zayn’s trousers when Liam smirks down at him. Zayn curls his fingers through Sameer’s soft hair, unconsciously twisting his fingers into the barely-there curls at the ends, his thumb dragging over Sameer’s forehead.

“Should get Sammy home,” he mutters.

“Sammy,” Liam hums, those crinkles around his eyes deepening when he grins. “I like that.”

Zayn bites into his lip. Under the growl of exiting yellow buses and mums squealing over their children, there’s a bass drum where his heart is supposed to be. Loud, pounding in his ears.

(and all he can hear, behind all of the noise, is the gentle slide of Liam’s accent when he talks.)

“We’ll miss the Tube if we don’t hurry,” Zayn adds, fixing the straps of Sameer’s bag, tugging on his own shoulderbag until the strap fits loosely around his chest.

Liam’s smile fades off a little under the late afternoon glow of a lazy sun. He crinkles his brow and Zayn wants to look away, wants the soft rays to blind him but –

“I could give you a ride,” Liam offers, hesitantly. There’s a nervous pull to his voice like he knows he shouldn’t but that genuine want in his eyes is so noticeable. “Going into the city? I’m not that far from – “

Zayn shakes his head instantly. He tugs Sameer a little closer, edging backwards.

“We’re fine, thanks. We’ve got it. S’not that horrible.”

“Horrible,” Liam repeats, shooting Zayn a stroppy look. “But – “

“See you later, Mr. Payne,” Zayn interrupts, half-turning, nudging Sameer up the sidewalk.

“It’s Liam!”

Zayn ducks his head when they’re far enough up the road, gently squeezing fingers over the soft skin on the nape of Sameer’s neck, just under the buzz of short hairs. Sameer tangles their fingers together like he always does (every day, squeezing until he feels content) and Zayn lets their hands swing loosely between them.

And under his breath, where everything feels most comfortable, he whispers _‘Leeyum’_ over and over in a cheap imitation of Liam’s accent.

(Until the name fits sweetly over his tongue and he learns to love the taste of it for a little bit.)

 

##

 

The Tube is overcrowded early into the evening and London blurs into focus in a heap of fading sunlight and pale greys. Zayn manages to squeeze them into a corner seat, grinning at an elderly woman who scoots over just enough to fit Sameer between them. She has bluish silver hair that Sameer keeps staring at between stops and that scent of mint and fresh linen that Zayn always remembers from being a kid.

Sameer spends most of the trip like he always does – shoved into Zayn’s hip, coloring neatly in one of Zayn’s old sketchbooks. His tongue is caught between his teeth in concentration, his head tilted as he strokes a green crayon against a messy Hulk drawing Zayn did one morning over coffee and a fry-up. He doesn’t look anyone in the eye and something sinks heavily between Zayn’s ribs –

It’s the way he knows everyone is _watching_ Sameer. This quiet boy who rocks in his seat, feet never touching the ground. The little boy who can’t hear the angry passengers or the whistle of the train. Always staying pressed to Zayn’s side, never looking at anyone for too long.

The way his lips are bitten raw and red whenever he goes to sign something to Zayn.

Like he knows the world is watching him. His every hand movement.

He’s someone different. Defenseless. He can’t hear their whispers about him and he’ll never really understand why all of the other children on the train watch him closely.

Sameer peeks his head up when Zayn stares down at him too long. His smiles shoves habitually at his cheeks until his eyes crinkle up (like a happy puppy – wait, almost the way Liam looked an hour ago and – ) around the edges.

_‘Okay baba?’_ he signs with the crayon still between his fingers.

Zayn snorts softly, nodding. He lifts his hands, signs, _‘Brilliant, babe. Ready to get home?’_

Sameer gives him an earnest nod, grinning wider. Zayn shoves his laugh deep into his chest this time, leaning down to press a sloppy kiss to the top of Sameer’s head, sniffing at the dried paint. He can’t swallow the giggle that shifts up his throat when Sameer playfully swats at him before they’re nose-to-nose, smiling with squinted eyes and this silent fondness between them.

(Except, no, their affection beats like a fucking marching band and Zayn hopes, somewhere, his son knows what that noise is like.)

Zayn pulls back with Sameer’s head pressing against his chest and a dozen eyes watching them curiously. He wants to flip them all off, shout a loud _‘fuck you’_ to the world because his son is not some sort of exhibit.

He’s not some strange piece of artwork to be judged by anyone.

Instead, he watches the sun slip down into a lava sky with Sameer’s paint-smeared fingers curled over his erratic heartbeat.

 

##

 

His flat is a modest, minimal space. It’s hardly the shoebox-sized landscape he had before interviewing for Cowell but he’s certain it’s not the fairytale London loft all of his lads back home imagined him having.

It’s a simple kitchen with imitation granite countertops and plain furniture in the living space. Dull maize walls that he’s spray painted with comic book heroes and Bob Marley doodles. His old art room stuffed with all of Sameer’s toys, a bare bed with black linen, a coffee table angled awkwardly near the window to catch the first breath of morning sun. Various pieces hung on the walls, leftover paintings from some of his art clients that were less than desired but Zayn finds them –

_Intriguing_ feels sweetest on his tongue. Different. Like he’s always been. The sort of word he hopes the world never pins to Sameer.

The bathroom attached to his bedroom is a solid space, with a smudged mirror and wet tiles –

It’s nearly his favorite place outside of his bed and the coffee table.

There’s a heady scent of orange and ginger in the room, a massive collection of bubbles surrounding Sameer in the tub like a giant iceberg. Suds and warm water have splashed along the cold floor, all of Sameer’s hair soaped up into a ridiculous mohawk at the top of his head. His cheeks and skin are pale pink from the heat, cherry lips stretched insanely wide as he dunks a few action figures into the abyss of bubbles.

Zayn is perched on the basin, smiling lazily, sketching with broken charcoal bits between his fingers. His teeth keep reflexively snagging his lower lip as he draws. He blinks up from under his heavy eyelashes every few beats – just to watch.

To catch the broad edge of Sameer’s grin behind a mountain of bubbles before the boy turns away, giggling.

He sighs under his next breath, fingers breaking up more charcoal, searching for inspiration.

Zayn gave up on art design halfway through his studies. He never thought any of his stuff was proper good – just stupid doodles and daydream comic book characters. Rookie material. He was never brilliant at line composition or aesthetic interpretation like some of the other students in his classes.

Nothing but a wannabe art kid trying to be a Marvel panelist. An imitation Lichtenstein. He knows none of his sketches or finished pieces would sell. Not in London.

Not anywhere, actually.

Still, Zayn smears his thumb over the sketch of London’s landscape, creating shadows with a lazy technique. Smudging depth into the structures and the hazy skyline in the background. His teeth chew anxiously along his lip before he pencils in a cab in the foreground.

A splash unsettles more foam onto the tiles and Zayn blinks up at a blushing Sameer. He ducks his head a little to hide his goofy smile from Zayn but he fails.

Zayn leans back, the cold mirror along his spine, bare toes wiggling on the edge of the tub. He cocks an eyebrow at Sameer, dragging the back of his wrist over the tip of his nose to stop an itch while Sameer sputters.

Between their quiet and that warm scent of ginger, they share ridiculous ( _absolutely mental_ ) smiles.

_‘Hungry?’_ Zayn signs with charcoal-stained fingers.

Sameer nods sheepishly, sinking down until he’s neck-deep in the water.

Zayn gives him a jerk of the head like _‘me too’_ before exhaling happily.

It’s late, the edge of something dark outside and his eyes are heavy, almost too exhausted to move but Sameer flicks a few bubbles at his feet and Zayn huffs out a relaxed laugh.

(Sameer is brilliant at this – making Zayn feel _alive_. Giving him just enough energy to exist.)

He bolts up from the water, his tiny chest saturated in frothy bubbles before he signs, _‘I love you, baba.’_

(It’s just that _easy_ – this feeling in his blood. This restless spirit beneath his bones. The calm.)

Zayn chews on his lip, leaning forward. He scoops a hand into the water, splashing at Sameer, laughing when Sameer yelps and flounders in the aftermath of a wave. He’s unprepared for Sameer to flick more bubbles at him and they trade tidal waves of soapy water for a moment – his sketch ruined on the soaked floor.

He doesn’t care at all. It’s just another smeared dream getting in the way of these quiet moments with Sameer.

 

##

 

Zayn has clicked through all of these pages a dozen times before. He’s read them over and over enough to ( _sort of_ ) understand all of the medical jargon, the phrasing, the definitions but still –

He chews nervously over his bottom lip in the dark of the living room. He’s sunken into the beat-up cushions of the sofa, legs stretched out and feet propped on a corner of the coffee table. His laptop glows blue on his thighs, shifting hazy light over the walls turned silver by the late night moon.

It’s after midnight and he’s been studying two words for too many hours now: _cochlear implants_.

The same words he’s looked up a thousand different times since Louis suggested it six months ago. Reading up on side effects and benefits and _‘what the fuck do electrodes have to do with hearing loss?’_ always hums through his mind as he reads.

He’s studied a hundred different doctors’ names from London to California and, almost every time, he shuts his laptop with a heavy sigh and the heels of his palms pressed to his eyelids. With lips left raw from his teeth and exhaustion wrapped around his bones when he reads over the cost.

Thousands of pounds he doesn’t have. Names like _‘National Health Service’_ and a dozen different contacts he still hasn’t reached out to.

Zayn feels so uncertain. _So_ –

He exhales loudly, pushing aside his laptop, slouching into the dark. He blinks at the ceiling, counting backwards, refusing to shut his eyes. Dense tears create this blur in his vision, making his eyelashes catch. His hands shake in his lap and Zayn just wants to curl up on the couch.

Zayn wants to sleep it all off like he usually does.

The city hums in waves outside his window. Late night taxis and empty streets and Big Ben in the background. The low growl of some fading club music. Leftover raindrops still crawling down gutters. The siren of someone’s mobile playing an old Arctic Monkeys ringtone.

Subtle noises he can pick apart with his eyes closed – sounds Sameer has never heard.

He exhales a wet breath, frustration crawling in, his blood stirring cold in his veins. He doesn’t mean to sniffle but it keeps the hot tears behind his lashes.

Zayn just wants to sleep.

Instead, he shifts on the lumpy cushions and blinks at a framed picture of him and Sameer sat on an end table. In his mum’s kitchen table, leaning over a birthday cake. Two matching smiles – ridiculously wide as they blow out the candles.

Something sweet curls in his lungs (like when he takes his first drag of a cigarette after quitting for two hours or that sticky breath he takes after a long shower) and his lips quirk crookedly.

There’s Bon Iver on someone’s stereo in another building, the music seeping through the glass. Zayn’s bare feet shift to the beat, to the _‘I toured a light so many foreign roads for Emma forever ago’_ in his head.

It’s that smile he thinks of – the same one Sameer wore yesterday. Standing in a car park, covered in paint, looking up curiously at some boy with sugar pink for lips and coffee for eyes.

Zayn snorts, rolling his eyes, letting a trail of warm tears slip down his cheek.

Some silly boy with a laugh something like April weather – unpredictable.

(And he still sort of likes the taste of Liam’s name on his tongue, even if he’s certain he shouldn’t bother remembering him. He has too many other things to focus on –

Or maybe there’s just not enough room in his chest for some substitute art teacher he barely knows.

Zayn is not interested in another daydream that won’t come true.)

 

##

 

“It’s in two weeks, right?”

Zayn blinks away from the thick blue sky knit overhead. He watches Louis expertly flick the flame of his lighter across the tip of a Marlboro he stole from Zayn’s pack, the filter caught between his teeth as he half-grins at Zayn.

“What, bro?”

Louis cackles, his first breath of grey smoke fogging up around him.

“Your next show. The one with all of Josh’s pieces? That red room that looks like blood is on the walls? For that one bird you scouted down in Liverpool? C’mon, _Zayner_ – “

Zayn takes a slow drag of his own ciggy, cocking his head back, pressing against the brick of the building behind him.

It’s one of their favorite things – a lunch of cigarettes and banter behind the gallery. Trading mindless thoughts over hot smoke, the occasional grande cup of Louis’ favorite coffee and a clear sky chasing clouds above them. It’s the sort of numbingly peaceful thing he remembers doing with Ant and Danny back home – before London.

Before university and Sameer.

Zayn gives him a careless shrug, watching the cherry of Louis’ ciggy go a harsh orange on his next pull.

“Yeah, yeah,” he exhales, his words clouded by smoke. He flicks off the ash, his nerves already craving another cigarette even though this one is only half done. “On a Thursday or summat. Caroline knows the specifics.”

Louis chokes out another laugh, thumping his chest.

“You’re mental, man. You’re worse than shit at your job.”

Zayn smirks around his cigarette, shrugging lazily.

“Better than you,” he counters.

Louis tilts his head back to blow out his smoke, smiling. “It’s ‘cause I’m holding out f’r more money, you twat.”

Zayn smirks, sucking in another long breath of smoke. “You’re full of shit, Tommo.”

Louis wriggles his eyebrows, scratching at the faint line of scruff across his jaw. Zayn wheezes out a giggle, haphazardly rolling the sleeves of his cotton Oxford up to his elbows, easing his face into the scattered bars of the sun between the buildings.

“Simon is being a dick,” Louis sighs.

“It’s ‘cause he won’t buy you a jet, innit?” Zayn teases, lips quirked around his cigarette.

Louis huffs out a foggy breath of smoke, flipping him off. “Oi, fuck off,” he grins, waving off the smoke. “Don’t even know why I bother keeping you around.”

Zayn drags his teeth along his bottom lip to hide the width of his smile. “S’cause I’m a bloody ace best mate,” he replies with a quick shrug, exhaling the smoke through his nose. “’Sides, you’re just a spoiled prat and y’know it.”

“Piss off,” Louis smiles, knocking their shoulders. “I’m just a – “

“You’re a walking cliché, bro,” Zayn argues without the heat in his voice. He arches an eyebrow and drags his eyes over Louis, giving him a sharp nod.

Louis pouts petulantly but –

He’s a clean, pressed suit with glassy Aviators over his eyes, too much product holding his hair in place, a skinny tie and mucked up Vans with a cigarette hanging between his lips. He’s a tailored stereotype with a mouthful of anarchy and Zayn thinks, happily, this is the only kind of Louis Tomlinson he’ll ever love.

“Twat,” Louis mumbles with a crooked smile, puffing out fluffy breaths of smoke like a Disney dragon.

The sun shines off blank window spaces from the opposite buildings, glittery bits of dust falling like stars and the late March air isn’t quite warm enough for Zayn but it’s comfortable. The smoke in his lungs, the nicotine in his blood keeps him from shivering and being distracted by the gust of pale wind in the alleyway.

“ _So_ ,” Zayn says, his voice dragging when Louis raises his brow, “still trying things out with El?”

Louis’ lips, a sour cherry color in this light, lift instantly. “Somethin’ like that.”

“Somethin’ like that,” Zayn repeats, nodding.

Louis gives him a halfhearted shrug, sucking in a quick breath, the tip of his cigarette flaring.

He exhales restlessly before adding, “She’s a great bird. Fascinating. She’s got completely mental ideas about fashion and photography and shit. She’s a good chat.”

“But?” Zayn tosses out, arching an eyebrow at Louis.

Louis coughs into his sleeve, sniffing. “Dunno, mate. She’s a good time. I fancy our weekends when we’re not, like, bantering about some useless shit.”

“Useless?” Zayn wonders, his smile already cocking upward. He _knows_ but he likes toeing about ingenuously.

Louis huffs a long sigh, flicking away his cigarette. He waves his hands about, trying to explain everything without the words and Zayn leans back into the brick, chuckling.

“Y’ever, just,” he breathes out, chewing on his thumbnail, “think about settling down? Cutting it all off? Marriage, kids, and the whole lot.”

Zayn raises his brow casually, inhaling a thick cloud of smoke, stretching his spare fingers over the cracked bricks behind him. Another draft lifts his foggy breaths in aggressive clouds above his head.

“Nope.”

Louis flashes him a brief manic smile, rolling his eyes. They both know Zayn is some undercover hopeless romantic. One of those cheesy lads who loves poetry and silly chat-up lines and fenced-in houses with neat lawns and a neighborhood crowded with children chasing each other into the sunset.

But he’s not going to admit it and Louis, the genius bastard, won’t push him on the matter.

(Not sober, at least.)

“Me neither,” Louis grins, still exhaling tiny breaths of smoke. “I think El does, though. And, like, one day, maybe?”

“One day,” Zayn whispers, smiling at the pavement rather than Louis.

“But you,” Louis says, pointing at Zayn while clumsily tugging a fresh cigarette from his pack, slipping it behind his ear, “you need to quit dicking about. Chat-up someone properly. Go on a date. Shag out some of this _brooding loneliness_ , bro.”

“M’not lonely,” Zayn argues in a soft, wounded voice.

“Malik, please,” Louis smirks, the devil scratched across his lips, “You’re desperate. Haven’t heard you talk about a proper pull in months. Not since that one bloke?”

“Aiden,” they whisper together, laughing.

Louis scuffs his Vans on the pavement, his fingers sparking the flame on his lighter over and over.

“He was an asshole,” he mutters into the taut breeze.

Zayn smiles into the clip of sunlight between the buildings. “He wasn’t,” he argues gently, pinching at the last of his cigarette for another breath. “We had some things in common.”

“Smoking and sucking dick?” Louis offers.

Zayn snorts, flipping him off. He ducks into the shadows, stubbing out his cigarette while the funnel of smoke burns against his lungs.

“We liked some of the same films. He was a bit pretentious about _art_ – “

“All art kids are,” Louis says with a casual shrug, winking when Zayn scoffs at him.

“But he was decent,” Zayn reprimands.

Louis licks at his chapped lips, carding fingers through his gel-sticky hair. “He didn’t get on with Sammy though. He didn’t bother trying, mate.”

Zayn bites along his lower lip. It was a bit manic – the way he and Aiden liked the same coffee, the same appreciation for art in the romanticism era, the taste of skin under their teeth after a long day at the office but –

Choosing a boy who hated Zayn’s taste in music and refused to stay sat in the same room with his son for more than five minutes made it simple to stop answering Aiden’s texts.

He doesn’t say that out loud, though. Instead, he smiles carefully and folds his arms defiantly across his chest.

“Hey, there was that one bloke El and you set me up with,” Zayn counters with a half-smirk.

“Ollie?” Louis wheezes, shaking his head. “You went on like two dates, Malik. Total waste. He was into you.”

“He wanted t’ know if I’d let him fuck me on the first date,” Zayn hisses, schooling the offended strain of his voice.

Louis gives him a halfhearted shrug with one shoulder, laughing. “A shag is a shag, mate. And you need one.”

Zayn narrows his eyes with as much annoyance edged into his expression as he can muster and the emergency exit door swings open with a groan of rusted metal. Caroline peeks her head out, clucking her tongue at them, tugging over overcoat closed as she steps out.

“What have I told you about getting smoke all in these lovely, posh clothes?” she chides, smacking at Zayn’s arm, shooting Louis a spiteful look.

Louis draws back with feigned innocence, tossing a hand over his mouth to mute his booming laugh while Zayn winces from the sting of Caroline’s hand.

“You stink,” she groans, fixing Zayn’s collar, smoothing out the sleeves of his shirt like a doting mother. “And you’ve got a few more pieces to review before you scoot off to get that gorgeous son of yours.”

Zayn smiles down at her careful hands, the way she’s keeping her chin low to cover her grin. He fingers a few loose strands of her hair behind her ear, thumbing at her cheek.

“Thanks, Caroline,” he whispers, turning his wrist between her hands so she can fasten the buttons of his cuffs.

“Shut it,” she sighs, brushing off flakes of sunlight dust. “You’re a right menace. And he’s no better.”

“Hey,” Louis frowns, trying to look offended when Caroline and Zayn chuckle softly. “I’m the boss’ son, you twats.”

“Step-son,” Zayn and Caroline say in unison. Caroline presses her giggle into Zayn’s chest and his hand instinctively runs the knobs of her spine while he smiles into her hair, dragging in her honeydew scent.

“C’mon, you,” Caroline smiles, pulling back, patting at Zayn’s hip. “Things t’do and you mustn’t keep that pretty little boy waiting.”

Zayn gives her a sharp nod, scratching absently at his unruly morning stubble.

“Hey,” Louis calls when they’re halfway into the back exit, balancing his new cigarette between his teeth with a lazy smile. “If y’ever need me to babysit Sammy while you get out for a pull, y’know, finally get shagged or summat, I’m available.”

Zayn grins into his shoulder. “I hardly think that’s a good idea, mate,” he replies, scooping loose strands of dark hair from his face. “You’re not a proper ace babysitter.”

“I’m brilliant,” Louis scoffs with a mild scowl.

“Y’ nearly set me flat on fire last time you kept him,” Zayn challenges with a soft laugh.

Louis flashes him an artificially innocent smile, wriggling his eyebrows. “We were playing Fantastic Four, bro. I was Johnny Storm.”

Zayn rolls his eyes and waves him off, ducking into the gallery, following sluggishly behind Caroline and ignoring the shout of _‘I’m just sayin’ bro, you need a proper date and a love life while you’re young!’_ all the way to the lifts.

(And between floors, he thumbs out a quick _‘thanks Tommo x’_ because, even if he won’t say it, he knows Louis is inexplicably correct about some things.)

 

##

 

The sun peels across the car park at the school like one giant golden hexagon late into the afternoon. Most of the scattered noise is dying off, yellow buses stuffed with schoolchildren pulling off in rumbles like a yawning lion. Zayn stands anxiously on the curb, fingers twitching at his sides. Because he skipped his after-work ciggy today.

(Because he’s getting better, he’s _quitting_. For Sameer. For himself.)

He tugs at his top knot, the sun bleeding into his vision and he almost misses when Sameer stumbles out of the brick building but –

Something hot and familiar stirs happily down his sternum when he spots Sameer bopping outside, his bag too big for his shoulders, bottom lip pinned beneath his teeth. It shifts this crookedly large smirk across his own mouth. He breathes in a deep inhale of clean air and feels that ache all down his lungs for too many seconds when Sameer spots him.

In the haze of afternoon sun, Zayn feels dizzy by all of the optic blues and true greens created by the light but he keeps his focus on Sameer sprinting clumsily across the pavement and, just behind him, Liam follows at a half-jog. With his eyes edging into gentle crinkles, his lips stretched up into his cheeks.

Zayn kneels quickly to catch Sameer in his arms, smiling into his thick hair, the tips curling and tickling Zayn’s nose. He sniffs at vanilla shampoo and there’s drying clay smeared all over Sameer’s skin, tacky plaster on his fingers.

“We’re discovering different mediums,” Liam explains sheepishly, standing over them, wide shoulders dimming the sun from Zayn’s eyes.

Zayn’s lips cock into this natural (too genuine) smile while his fingers get caught in Sameer’s sticky hair.

“Thought you were into music,” he teases, his mouth quirking when, even in the strong light, he spots a smudge of blush across the freckles in Liam’s skin.

Liam half-shrugs, scuffing his trainer on the curb. “I know a bit about art,” he argues, trying to shove the abashment out of his voice but he fails. It draws up a smoky laugh from Zayn’s already too tight lungs.

“M’sure,” Zayn replies, pushing to his feet again, keeping a hand in Sameer’s hair when his tiny arms stay interlocked around Zayn’s thigh. “What was today’s lesson?”

Liam wiggles his fuzzy eyebrows, cocking his chin up. “Handprints and molding their favorite super heroes,” he says, reaching a clay-stained hand back to press over the nape of his neck.

(Zayn wonder how soft the skin back there is, if the clipped hairs at the base of Liam’s skull would tickle his nose if he nuzzled too close and – _what the fuck?_ )

“Helped Sammy mold a proper sick Hulk,” Liam says, this nervy hint of pride coiled in his voice.

“S’ his favorite,” Zayn smiles. “Green is. Like me. And, well, the Hulk too, I s’ppose.”

“Well, we _tried_. Think we got more clay on the floor than anywhere else but – “

Liam’s voice trails off in a quiet huff, his chin lowering, his blush _almost_ hidden.

Almost but not quite.

Zayn snorts, thumbing bits of hair out of Sameer’s face, admiring the streak of red clay left behind on his cheek. He flicks his eyes over Liam, a matching smear down Liam’s forearm, brightening the four thick arrows inked down his skin.

His hair is soft today, malleable, strands falling lazily on his forehead like he doesn’t give a shit. Like he’s comfortable in joggers and oversized shirts instead of proper suit and tie combos Zayn’s used to Louis going on about.

Liam is more of a lazy Sunday, the kind where you rarely get out of bed for a fresh kettle and breathe through cigarettes in a windowsill while the sun touches down on the horizon.

(And Zayn’s not certain why he’s even thinking of any of these things – why he barely wants to drag his eyes away from Liam and how he’s so _different_.)

( _Interesting_.)

(The word is sweet, saccharine against his pallet, down over the bristly buds of his tongue.)

“I’d love to see it one day,” Zayn says, his voice gone tight from the –

Not the thoughts but, well.

Liam grins, tilting his head, looking a little awed in a way Zayn can’t make out. Not with the sun in his eyes, he tells himself.

(it’s not an excuse – _not yet_.)

Sameer’s fingers tug gently at the fabric of Zayn’s trousers, his lips between his teeth as he watches them – like the day before. Trying to follow Zayn’s gaze and the way Liam’s mouth always forms half of his words like he’s tasting each syllable.

(And fucking hell when did Zayn start noticing that too?)

“Oi, I almost forgot,” Liam stammers, stealing a hand into his back pocket to produce a crinkled sheet of paper stained in watercolors. “One of the drawings Sammy did yesterday. Kept it for – I thought you’d might want it? Thought it proper nice to hang up somewhere? At your flat, maybe?”

Zayn tugs his hand away from Sameer’s hair to grab the drawing, his mouth instantly flinching into a decomposed smile.

It’s just a clutter of slashed paint strokes, colors used madly over the paper, everything dizzying but –

Zayn peers at it for a long moment like he half-recognizes the scene. A view from their favorite bench in Hyde Park. The sun and the sky and the swaying grass. In smears of paint and chaos.

“Dunno,” Liam shrugs, palming his neck again. “Someone else might call it a bit manic but, like. I think it’s brilliant. Like, um, you have’ta really stare at it for a bit to see how beautiful he made it look.”

Teeth slide carefully over Zayn’s lower lip to dim his smirk. His fingers crinkle the edges of the paper, squeezing tightly. It reminds him of something his mum would tack to the walls of their beat-up, rented house back in Bradford.

All of his sister’s and his work strewn along those white and brown walls like a gallery. But she fawned over every piece for hours like –

Something burns in Zayn’s chest like the coals of a fire pit and he struggles for his next breath before blinking down at Sameer. He slowly signs, _‘Amazing, babe.’_

Sameer’s cheeks push all the way into his eyes when he smiles, every little wrinkle in his face making him glow like a firefly at dusk.

“He’s one of me best students,” Liam adds, rocking on his heels in the background. “Such talent, man.”

“Oh shush you,” Zayn laughs, looking up through his eyelashes. His fingers tighten on the drawing with the soft kick of the sun slashing gold against Liam’s tan skin. “Y’ don’t have t’ like, flatter me or nothing, man. I won’t complain about a music guy trying to teach my son art.”

It’s a tease, Zayn’s lips stretched crooked and wide, but Liam flusters a little. His skin burns from something other than the sun, shoulders tightening around his neck.

“I just thought, um – “

Zayn waves him off, biting at his lip. “S’cool, man. Thanks. Honestly.”

Liam’s smile thickens immediately, a tight laugh escaping his chest, his eyes starting to crinkle once more.

“I mean, even if he wasn’t that brilliant, I’d still probably say it to you. Not because I need a recommendation or something,” Liam giggles and he relaxes under the sun. “I would just like – well. Shit, I’m quite awful at this, y’know?”

Zayn raises his brow cautiously. “At being a teacher? Don’t worry, I won’t rat you out for your poor language.”

Liam coughs out a laugh, turning a sharp shade of crimson. “No – not _that_ , you donut. I mean, the whole chat-up thing, I guess?” he says, his voice going soft. He flinches when Zayn’s eyes go a little wide, raising surrendering hands quickly. “Shit. Not _like that_ , mate. I mean, you’re ‘round me age, right? And I don’t have many mates ‘round London and – fuck. I’m mucking this up.”

“This?” Zayn wonders, cocking his head.

Liam nods slowly, sighing a loud breath. “Yeah. I’m just trying to see if maybe someday you’d like to grab lunch? Nothing huge or whatever. Sandwiches and chips?”

Zayn eases back on his heels, letting the sun blind most of his vision because –

Well, staring at Liam too long has created this lightheaded euphoric feeling he hasn’t really experienced before and he’s certain some of the lingering mums are gazing at Liam like lovesick schoolgirls because he’s bloody _fit_. He’s soft and strong and his smile is uncomfortably contagious.

(And Zayn’s not really interested. Not in actively pursuing anything other than a better life for Sameer.)

“Lunch? Like a date?” Zayn asks after a beat.

Liam nods quickly and the light isn’t quite as distracting as Zayn needs it to be when he glares at the candy pink shade of Liam’s lips.

(how soft they look, how they would feel on his neck, wrapped around the tip of his dick, along that space behind his balls)

“You’re into lads?”

Liam giggles nervously, looking around quickly. Most of the crowd has faded off, the noise of the day dimming, the world so large around them. Spring colors and hazy sun and cars pulling away from the school.

“I think,” Liam hums, sucking in a quick breath. “I’m into _you_ , if that counts? Seems fair.”

Zayn crinkles his eyebrows, his teeth biting at the edge of his tongue. He’s heard _better_ – chat-up lines and techniques and he’s usually too drunk to care that some daft bloke has started calling him _‘exotic’_ while feeling the outline of Zayn’s dick in a loo but –

This feels different. Awkwardly _rare_ because his heart feels half-interested in learning about Liam and if he’s from the West Midlands like Zayn predicts and how excited he gets when talking about something he really likes.

But Sameer’s soft fingers tighten along his trousers and –

“You don’t really know me, mate,” he says, looking away. His spare hand brushes over the top of Sameer’s head before he adds, softer, “It might not be appropriate for me t’ chat up my son’s teacher.”

“Substitute teacher,” Liam inserts, his voice a little hopeful.

Zayn snorts, shaking his head. He rolls his eyes when those crinkles shift around Liam’s eyes.

“You’re mad,” he sighs but that feeling shifts down deep in his nervous system – curiosity.

“I might be,” Liam shrugs, toeing a little closer. “Might be a right serial killer or the nicest lad you’ve ever met. I reckon I’m interesting. Quite funny.”

“Self-defense is not proof,” Zayn teases.

Liam shoots him a mock frown before giggling. He gives a playful shrug and Zayn’s not certain if it’s the warmth of the sun or Sameer’s arms around his thigh or how close Liam is now but –

“Just think it’d be a nice thing, alright? Lunch,” Liam repeats. His voice slips into this honey-baritone, thick with confidence, mildly cocky like this is how he really is when he’s flirting.

When he’s interested and not willing to give up a pursuit.

(A pink tongue slips out to lick Liam’s lips shiny, his smile absently large when Zayn unconsciously flutters his eyelashes, feels the prickle of goosebumps up his forearms.)

“I don’t think – “

“Probably shouldn’t think about it then,” Liam suggests, looking abashed and a little relieved when Zayn laughs at him.

“Not backing down?” Zayn wonders, leaning into the soft swill of afternoon breeze.

It knocks pieces of Liam’s hair around, distracts all of the attention from the way Liam’s cheeks are burning.

Zayn bites his lip, squeezes his lungs around a sigh and avoids Liam’s eyes when he finally mutters out his phone number. He giggles under his breath when Liam fumbles for his mobile, his thumb tapping in the number, his hand shaking. Zayn repeats the number, slower, grinning and leaning in to watch Liam enter it in.

“For parent-teacher purposes only, mate,” Zayn warns, even with a smile.

Liam’s lips stretch jaggedly before he nods. “Of course.”

“I’m not,” Zayn sighs, blinking down at Sameer. “He’s my world right now, man. Nothing else. I can’t really afford to, like – it’s all about him.”

He keeps his chin tilted down, smiling down at Sameer, watching Sameer stare up at Liam with wide eyes, a curious pull to his mouth.

Zayn is unaware when a set of clay-tacky fingers ease up the back of his hand, over his knuckles and veins. He blinks up quickly at Liam and that bloody _addictive_ smile.

“As it should be,” Liam agrees, his voice gone gentle and warm. “Just lunch sometime. Or a chat. I’m a bit daft about all of this but I won’t, like – I won’t pressure you, mate.”

Zayn nods back slowly, tricking his lips into a small smile.

“We should go.”

Liam grins, giving him a lazy shrug before he’s dropping to his knees, finding the right angle until he’s at Sameer’s height on the pavement. He ruffles Sameer’s hair, his hand gliding over Zayn’s in the tangle of hair before he draws back nervously.

He looks sheepish, his smile a little deflated before he slowly signs, _‘Have a good day, okay?’_

Zayn’s heart stutters instantly, right there behind his ribs, that dizzy feeling returning but it’s not the sun or all the bright colors or even Sameer. He thinks –

He _can’t think_ actually.

Sameer grins out something soft before signing, _‘thank you,’_ a quick motion from his lips to Liam with his hand.

“I’ve been asking Mary to teach me some stuff,” Liam explains when he pushes back to his feet, Zayn still staring at him blankly. He shrugs shyly, grinding the toe of his trainer into the sidewalk. “Haven’t learned much. I’m not that brilliant but I’m trying.”

Dizzy and overwhelmed. Zayn feels it in his marrow and he just wants to –

He doesn’t know. Kiss him? Thank him? Walk away before he mumbles out stupid words of poetry he learned in sixth form and doodled into the margin of all his art books?

Instead, Zayn clears his throat, nodding. He swallows down all of the words he can’t put into a proper sentence, coughing, gently turning Sameer towards the road for their walk to the Tube.

“Um, nice seeing you, Mr. Payne,” Zayn says, over his shoulder, biting at his smile before it threatens an ache all over his cheeks.

“It’s Liam!”

Zayn sighs, nodding, whispering _‘Leeyum’_ under his breath before tangling his hand around Sameer’s to guide him up the road.

Away from Liam and this sudden want to stand on that curb until the sun falls away and his lungs hurt from repeating this boy’s name over and over. From this desire to stare at Liam for hours and teach him other simple words in sign language to help him talk to Sameer.

To let Liam in just a little bit, into this world Zayn rarely shares with anyone other than Louis or Caroline or his family.

Someone he doesn’t even know.

( _not yet._ )

 

##

 

Morning sun splinters through his thick curtains, tiny bows and fuzzy squares against the back of his eyelids. Tangerine and crimson, circus colors that he groans at, tossing a lazy forearm across his eyes, trying to drown in the tangled sheets around his waist. His bedroom has that hint of cold every morning brings, striking small goosebumps up his skin, where the surface of the sun refuses to touch. His feet shuffle on the mattress to crawl back under the duvet and his lumpy pillows won’t drag him back to that comfortable sleep he was just in.

That lull between dreams and waking up he thinks he’s always lingering in.

Tiny, chilly fingers skim over the tip of his nose, grazing the bristly morning stubble on his jaw until Zayn hears a faint giggle in the background. They rub at his chapped bottom lip until his mouth quirks into a small smile.

Even while he’s groggy, Zayn can smell the orangery-ginger scent of leftover bath soap and his spare hand blindly reaches out until he finds sleep-warm skin. Tousled hair and soft cheeks. The feathery length of Sameer’s eyelashes when he blinks.

Zayn sighs, yawning, stretching and nearly knocking Sameer from where he’s half-perched on Zayn’s chest. Carefully, he drags his arm away and blinks at the harsh strip of light from between the curtains.

The early London sun and cottony clouds outside of his window and Sameer grinning until his nose wrinkles.

_‘I’m up, I’m up,’_ Zayn signs, smiling goofily when Sameer tosses a hand over his mouth to muffle his giggle. _‘Good morning.’_

_‘Morning baba,’_ Sameer signs back with bright eyes like he’s been awake for hours.

(It’s one of those traits Zayn’s certain his son didn’t get from _him_ – the ability to wake before the sun and watch the world come alive.

Zayn hates any hour before noon, even on the weekends.)

His hands rush up Sameer’s hips, tickling over the soft stretch of skin under his shirt until Sameer teeters over in a riot of laughter, writhing and kicking as Zayn tugs him into the cocoon of sheets for a cuddle. His chapped lips press gently to Sameer’s temple, eyes fluttering shut as Sameer wriggles around to get comfortable.

Those tiny fingers tiptoe over Zayn’s warm skin, tracing across the stain of red lips and feathered wings on his sternum.

(Some silly tattoo he got at the start of uni to express his _‘artistic side’_ – or to impress some pretty girl who sat in the front of his creative writing course.

He’s not sure which but he loves the design and Sameer’s always been a bit fascinated with it.)

The buzz of the morning wades over them as they breathe softly, synchronized under the slits of sun. Zayn twists his fingers through Sameer’s thick hair while his son outlines all of his favorite tattoos (the _‘Friday?’_ and Arabic script and even the tiger one near his shoulder) quietly. His nose wrinkles midway and it reminds Zayn of someone else –

(Someone Zayn hates thinking of fondly. Of someone he hasn’t spoken with in too long. Someone with pale cherry lips and soft skin and eyes bigger than Sameer’s.

A greyish memory in his mind. One he doesn’t muck about with for too long.)

Zayn sighs into Sameer’s hair before his fingers gently knock Sameer’s chin up, grinning when Sameer huffs.

_‘Breakfast?’_ he signs.

Sameer nods happily, his nose crinkling just like –

Zayn looks away with an affectionate smile, blinking at his beat-up pack of smokes on the end table next to his alarm clock. The harsh blink of violent red numbers makes him groan – it’s half nine and nowhere near noon but –

It takes them another ten minutes before Zayn thinks to move, yawning and stretching again before playfully patting Sameer’s bum to get him out of the way.

They’re always like this on Saturdays – lazy, lethargic, cuddled between the sheets for hours without moving. It’s another one of Zayn’s favorite things (like Sameer’s soft snores when he’s exhausted or how they laugh at nothing at all or the slow climb of the sun with his son curled under his arm) and he thinks he could stay here for hours.

(Except, there’s a rumble from Sameer’s belly and Zayn really needs a ciggy and at least one cup of tea.)

_‘Go brush your teeth,’_ Zayn signs when Sameer finally rolls out of the mess of sheets, bare feet thumping on the hardwoods as he scampers off with a yelp.

Zayn grins into his shoulder, this spill of something sweet down his spine when he stretches into the light of the sun. He scratches at his stomach, watching flecks of dust spiral like glitter in the light. His worn joggers slip down his hips, unruly bits of dark hair peeking from under the loose band, a skinny trail chasing up the skin under his navel. His hand eases over his morning semi, his thumb flicking over the outline of the head sympathetically –

(Because he knows there’s not a spare moment for a lazy wank in the shower or across the sheets, thighs spread and his tongue caught between his teeth while precome dribbles over his knuckles)

His stubble itches and his bones are still heavy from sleep but the sound of the running tap and Sameer clattering around the bathroom like a mad scientist make him feel –

Well, _alive_.

 

##

 

Their morning is lethargic and easy, the way Zayn loves. The sun filling the flat like the stream from a lighthouse is just a background to this glow inside of Zayn. This lightning between his lungs – charged and flowing.

Sameer is sat on their ratty sofa, legs folded under him, balancing a bowl of soggy cereal in his lap while giggling madly at _the Lego Movie_ playing on the telly. His hair is a ruffled mess and his cheeks are that stark shade of rose whenever he looks into the kitchen at Zayn. Just this glowing firefly, _‘jugnu’_ Zayn’s mum calls him, in this ordinary flat too small for his glow.

Zayn watches with a tilted head, leaning against the kitchen counter, his cup of tea still steaming next to his hip. There’s a cigarette tucked behind his ear because he’s too distracted by Sameer to bother. The tiles are cool under his bare feet, his skin still fuzzy from sleep, his hair pulled up into a half-arsed knot at the top of his head.

His tongue runs over chapped lips while the sun angles awkwardly into the lounge, making all of Sameer’s sharp edges go fuzzy in this distractingly beautiful way.

(Zayn considers, more than once, reaching for an old sketchpad just to capture the shadows and the way Sameer looks so small even though he’s growing into his bones and limbs now.)

Instead, his phone buzzes on the counter, next to his steeping cup of tea, startling him a little. He absently reaches for it, swiping away the lock screen, expecting some silly message from Louis but –

It’s a picture message from Liam.

The lighting is warm (maybe one of those dumb filters Zayn loves) and it makes his skin look like honey. It flushes his cheeks to this smooth pink and his freckles look like flecks of coral on his skin. There’s thick stubble and a wrinkled white shirt and Liam’s tragic attempt at smoldering from the other side of the camera. On a bed with soft hair and fuzzy eyebrows and –

Zayn swallows a quick breath, the sound hollow as it moves through his throat. He stares at full lips (incredibly _distracting_ because they’re plump and red and chapped) before scrolling down to the caption:

_‘mornings suckkk!’_

There’s a goofy monkey emoji tacked onto the end and Zayn groans softly, absently adjusting his fattening cock in his joggers, patting it down. He rolls his eyes when his thumb (because his heart is loud and demanding) taps on the picture to zoom in on Liam’s eyes (dark coffee and raw cinnamon) before another message vibrates through the phone.

_‘inappropriate?? sorrrrry!’_

A blushing emoji sits at the end this time and Zayn snorts softly before he thumbs out a quick response –

_‘only if we’re having student chats in your bed … and we’re not! aha ;)’_

He bites along his lip, feeling sheepish in the quiet moments he waits between breaths. Before his phone buzzes between his fingers again.

_‘we could go over lessons while watchin the avengers! have a properrrr kip on me sofa! i can quiz u!!’_

Zayn catches the tip of his tongue between his teeth, giggling under his breath. There’s a rush in his veins that he can’t quite name but he settles for tapping out another message instead.

_‘Favourite character??’_

The response is almost immediate and Zayn cackles at the image of Liam, a bit younger, dressed in a full-on Batman costume with a buzzed head and a crinkled laugh. There’s something warm about his face, even with all of the black and the night crowding most of the picture. It’s alarming, the way Zayn thinks of Liam at some daft fancy dress party during university, drinking beers and going on about all of his favorite Nolan scenes to his mates.

_‘do I look horrrrible?’_

A frowning emoji this time and Zayn thinks it should all be a bit annoying – the way Liam texts. His grammar. His adoration for stupid phone icons but –

_‘Nope! Ace job mate. Batman is sick!!’_

Zayn distractedly adds milk to his tea, sparing a few glances towards Sameer as he bops around on the couch, snickering manically at another scene in the film. The buzz in his palm twitches all over his nerves and he blinks down for another message.

_‘whats yours???’_

He cups the back of his neck, ignoring his tea, feeling the uncomfortable throb of his heart against his ribs. He takes a few careful breaths because this is mad. It’s fucking _insane_. He shouldn’t be –

Zayn stumbles around the kitchen, tugging out an old sketchbook from a pile on the counter, thumbing through the pages before finding a wrinkled sheet of something he did on the Tube one morning. An incredibly daft sketch of him as a Green Lantern – half-done, barely colored, the lines smudged and imperfect.

A sigh scratches at his throat before he snaps off a quick picture, wincing at the poor lighting and this is ridiculous but he types out something quick for Liam –

_‘green is mah favourite colour!’_

It feels teenaged and dramatically adolescent but Zayn resigns to biting his bottom lip while waiting ( _anticipating_ , really) a response.

_‘dudddde! talented & quite hottt ??!! sammy is a lucky fella!’_

Another blushing face this time and Zayn wants to shut off his phone. He wants to shove it into one of the cupboards and flop down onto the couch to think of anything other than Liam sprawled on his bed, cradling his phone, one strong hand shoved into his pants to calm the throb of his aching cock at the thought of Zayn.

Zayn curses under his breath, shaking his head. He exhales, pressing back into the edge of the counter, almost knocking over his tea to reply.

_‘shut up! you’re just being nice! aha!! But thank you x’_

He turns his phone over and over between his fingers, finally sliding it across the counter because he doesn’t want to see what Liam sends back. He doesn’t want to feel so –

Distracted. Overwhelmed.

_Interested_.

His teeth bite over his lower lip and his tea goes cold and milky next to him while he watches his phone light up. He doesn’t bother reaching for it. His bare feet pad over the sun-soaked floor and he staggers into the living room to budge onto the sofa next to Sameer, dragging his snickering son into his lap and starting the film over just for the sound of that laughter in his ears.

(for the thing he knows Sameer can’t have – the sound of the city and his own laugh and this unsettling happy exhale Zayn releases anytime Sameer cuddles closer)

(for all of the noises that make Zayn feel at home and alive)

 

##

 

It’s half nine and the London skyline is nearly indigo outside of his large office window. Scattered stars above and red brake lights from the dozens of cabs below. One of those cool spring nights where you bundle up in denim jackets for a cigarette.

One of those nights that makes Zayn feel exhausted and cozy at the same time.

He’s leaning back in his desk chair, feet propped on his desk (he smiles because Caroline would scold him for being so childish if she were around) with silver fingertips from broken charcoal he uses to sketch a smudgy Winter Soldier. Slants of grey down his palm, smears all over the paper. The edge of his tongue caught between his teeth in concentration.

He should be reviewing all of Josh’s pieces for the upcoming show downstairs, looking over sketches from new artists he wants to showcase but –

_This is his calm._

This quiet and heavy sketchpad and the night outside changing colors like a dead sea under the stars.

Sameer is curled up on the settee in the corner, coloring madly while yawning into a loose fist every few seconds. There’s a halfhearted smile every time he looks up at Zayn.

Cozy and exhausted, Zayn thinks, grinning back.

There’s a fort of empty Chinese takeaway cartons on the carpet, a crumb trail to where they sat for dinner an hour ago. Soy sauce stains and broken fortune cookies smashed into the carpet. Sameer’s oversized backpack and Zayn’s shoulderbag, crayons and acrylic pens spilling out.

A second home, he muses, because Zayn spends more time behind this desk with Sameer kipping on that settee than he thinks he spends in his own flat, sometimes.

Trying to build dreams out of broken aspirations. Anything to earn a few more pounds a week. For Sameer. For a life where the other kids don’t stare and point at him like he’s –

Well, _different_. Like Zayn was growing up.

“Y’know,” Caroline hums, leaning in the doorway, smirking. “You shouldn’t spend your whole life in the office. There’s nowt much to do around here.”

Zayn smiles, kicking his feet off the desk (because he can already spot Caroline narrowing her eyes) before sighing.

“Just finishing up.”

“Liar,” she grins, shaking her head. “That little darling deserves a proper dinner and a good bed to lie in. Not this empty space.”

“S’not empty,” Zayn frowns, waving at all of the – well, _stuff_. The cold, lifeless office stuff. “I’ve got my comic books.”

Caroline tuts at him. “Quit being thick. And get out. Go home. We’ll figure out the gallery show tomorrow or summat. You’re becoming one of those suit-twats.”

Zayn scoffs out a laugh, pushing away his sketchpad, brushing the smears of charcoal from his hands on his trousers (and grinning at the way Caroline makes an offended noise in the background).

“And you’re a bit nagging, yeah?”

“Oi, don’t push it, Malik,” she warns, lips still creased up into a smile. “Being a prick like that idiot Tomlinson.”

Zayn curves his smile into his shoulder, running his eyes over the purple of the sky outside of the glass before darting his attention to Sameer’s droopy eyes. A shiver runs the length of his spine at the thought –

Cuddled in his own bed, Sameer sprawled next to him with his head pillowed on Zayn’s chest and his swaying snores under the sounds of the city.

“Give me twenty and I’ll spring for a cab home, alright?” he offers Caroline, a half-pleading smile shifting up his lips.

She clucks her tongue before nodding. “Not a minute more, Zee. He’s knackered and I don’t need your lazy arse dragging ya feet in here tomorrow morn looking half-dead.”

Zayn chuckles and flips her off when she spins on her heels, a teasing giggle following her heavy footsteps down the hall. His phone lights up and buzzes from a stack of papers on his desk and he lazily grabs at it, knowing it’s probably Louis or his mum or –

It’s not become a thing, not entirely. The way they text, during the evenings, when Zayn’s knackered and Liam’s restless and their conversations are _pointless_ but –

It’s this _thing_. This tiny ritual. These chats about nothing and Liam sending Zayn photos of street graffiti he finds online and Zayn quoting his favorite lines from Marvel films and these easy conversations that never add up. Except they’re simple. _Easy_.

The sorts of conversations Zayn remembers having in secondary school with someone he fancied but didn’t have the bullocks to properly ask out.

(And that feels heavy out of context because Zayn’s always been a bit confident, arrogant when it came to pursuing someone so he’s not quite sure what any of this means but – )

This time it’s a Batman splattered across a brick wall, swirled lines and smeared black like the artist was in a rush. There’s a quick message underneath –

_‘sick art!! I kno a great place with a niiiice view of this! interested?? x’_

Zayn’s lips slide up into this genuinely fond smile that he wants to bite off. He leans back in his chair, the groan and squeak of it familiar. He rubs a few fingers over his evening stubble, rolling his eyes.

(That’s also _not a thing_ – Liam hinting at asking Zayn out. Offering him dinner or a film night or just a slow stroll through the park between chats about _the Guardians of the Galaxy_ or debates about Andrew Garfield over Tobey Maguire.)

(It’s _always_ Tobey – he’s the original.)

He wonders if maybe it’s the exhaustion finally wearing him down or the way the night’s sky makes him feel a bit carnal or this little _‘fuck you world’_ he’s been carrying around since he was sixteen that makes him text back. With heavy blush, he taps away, furrowing his brow, chewing his lower lip raw.

_‘there’s a café across from hyde Park. sammy & me go every Sunday. tea and Sheermal! :) its great!! want in?? x’_

His bottom lip goes sore and swollen in the seconds he waits, his heart this rabbit thump behind his ribs and it’s so _daft_. Its bloody elementary how he feels drugged out on the idea of Liam declining or –

The phone buzzes against his palm and there’s an outrageously distracting picture of Liam in bed, smiling at the lens, a poorly written _‘sounds brilliantttt!! NOON?? beddy-time forrrr me! aha’_ underneath.

Zayn laughs under his breath, swiping out a quick _‘yes’_ before pocketing his phone, groaning at the ceiling while dragging his palms over his eyes.

(Because this is mad, absolutely insane and Zayn can’t quite sort out why he’s even bothering but – _not yet_.

He doesn’t want to think about it just yet.)

He pushes out of his chair, hopping the few steps between his desk and the settee, falling down and swallowing Sameer into his arms. Sameer laughs loudly into the crook of Zayn’s neck but doesn’t pull away. He yawns under Zayn’s jaw and Zayn refuses to move for a few moments.

In the dim light of his office, he cuddles Sameer and breathes. He rests his lips against Sameer’s temple and lets the world outside turn pitch black while he counts Sameer’s breaths.

(He knows he’ll have to carry Sameer cradled in his arms all the way to the lifts, his son too sleepy and groggy to bother walking.

And he won’t complain at all. Not for a second.)

 

##

 

There’s something about this little island view of the world from a tiny café, perched on the corner of a quiet street, underneath one of those giant umbrellas with the world looking evergreen and pastel that leaves Zayn a little breathless.

(Or maybe it’s the warm breeze along his cheek or the scent of all his favorite dishes that remind him of his mum’s cooking or the taste of perfectly steeped tea or this cozy view of –

Well, _Liam_.)

(no, it’s not Liam – not quite yet.)

But Zayn studies the crinkles around Liam’s eyes when he laughs, genuine and loud, the way he covers his smile and chuckles into his palm. His soft hair, stripped of waxy product, swaying with the wind. Pink skin from a fresh shower and a loose shirt, the collar stretching low when Liam leans over the table. Springy chest hair and tan skin and a cotton candy tongue that licks over his lips when he’s too nervous to talk.

Yet, Liam looks comfortable and relaxed across from Zayn. His chair knocked close to Sameer’s, a jittery leg bouncing under the table whenever Sameer strays his eyes over Liam.

He freezes like in that one scene of _Jurassic Park_ – like if he doesn’t move, Sameer won’t make a fuss over him.

(It makes Zayn laugh until his lungs burn and his cheeks ache and his jaw feels sore – the sort of thing he imagines silly schoolchildren feel when they’re infatuated over someone.)

(And _Zayn’s not_ – not even slightly, he reminds himself.)

(Constantly and that’s, well.)

Liam watches Zayn add hearty amounts of sugar and honey to Sameer’s tea, tearing up the sheermal and passing it around.

Zayn smirks into his shoulder, stirring the tea, ducking his head a little. “He likes it sweet,” he shrugs, blowing off the steam while Sameer waits. “My best mate Louis says it’s uncultured and high treason to do such a thing.”

Liam chuckles into the collar of his shirt, shrugging before dousing his tea with three spoons of sugar. “My mates back home are the same. Rugged bunch of idiots. Traditionalists.”

A smile twists under Zayn’s teeth when he bites along his lip. He waits a moment before passing over the tea to Sameer, keeping a hand under the base to make sure Sameer doesn’t spill it.

It’s one of those cafés with nice porcelain cups and saucers and a chalkboard sign outside of the entrance. Something homely, a little like the small portions of Bradford his mum would drag him to when he was too young to complain. To shop and buy fresh spices and see another side of this world.

(a gentler side where he didn’t have to explain his religion or the tint of his skin or how to pronounce his sisters’ names)

(the kind of place he wants to raise Sameer in – _quiet and cozy_ )

There’s old speakers hung in the archway just outside of the patio they’re sat at, tinny noises coming from them, a steady stream of _‘every time you have to go shut my eyes and you know I’ll be lying right by your side in Barcelona’_ from a tune he doesn’t know but taps his foot along to. It tickles into his bones and keeps him from looking ( _staring_ ) at Liam for too long.

“ _So_ ,” Zayn grins, his tongue licking out to taste his own tea, “music, eh?”

Liam’s lips twitch into an embarrassed smile, a shaking hand immediately reaching up to rub against the nape of his neck. In the swell of afternoon sunshine, Zayn can pick apart the blush from the freckles and the way Liam’s eyes burn gold from this angle.

“Yeah, um,” Liam smiles, clicking his tongue when Zayn snickers. “Dunno. I was always proper into music. Always sung around the house and me mum pushed me to do festivals. Family gatherings. Local talent shows. Stupid shit and I just – I dunno. I love music.”

Zayn nods, sniffing, leaning back into the steel chair. The paint is chipping all over, rusted bits and it groans loudly with too much pressure, the framing swallowing him but Zayn loves these chairs.

And this view. And this quiet corner of the world.

“Music is brilliant,” Zayn shrugs, catching the edge of his bottom lip with his teeth. “Honestly, it’s a cool craft to create it. Is that – you into that?”

Liam nods quickly, his smile creasing lines into his expression. “Proper into it, mate,” he cheers, leaning over the table with his elbows. “Studied engineering and stuff. Learned as much as I could about it. All of the studio stuff. The instruments.”

Zayn raises an eyebrow, his grin tilting. “Like?”

“Piano, mainly,” Liam shrugs, looking down with dark eyelashes and stained cheeks. “Some guitar stuff but mostly, like – classic piano? My first year, I wanted to be like a film composer. Like symphonies and stuff?”

Zayn snorts, leaning in. He takes a quick swallow of tea, whispering, “Like a conductor? Soundtracks?”

Liam laughs under his breath, nodding. “Not, like – I just wanted to _create_ the music. Background stuff.”

“Like _Star Wars_?” Zayn asks, trying to stifle how eager he sounds but Liam’s head pops up and Zayn feels the prickle of flush all across his skin. “You’d make a sick Jedi, I s’ppose.”

Liam cackles, draining half of his tea in one loud slurp. “I’d be a right cool Jedi. And my music would be timeless.”

“Timeless,” Zayn repeats, his voice teasing.

Liam ducks his head but kicks at Zayn’s ankle under the table, a little retaliatory motion that makes Zayn choke on his next laugh.

“Or maybe a studio producer?” Liam offers, all of these uncertain wrinkles forming in his brow when he lifts his eyebrows. “Like – I studied that stuff too. The equipment. How it works.”

“What kind of stuff?”

Liam gives a careless shrug but something bright, fiery splinters into his eyes. “I’d love to remix stuff. Big club tunes. Massive stuff with bass and loads of treble. Sort of like a Calvin Harris thingy?”

Zayn chews on his lip to scatter his impressed smile. He hides it all behind his cup, looking away. “DJ Payno,” he whispers, his voice low, drifting.

(but he notices the soft rub of Liam’s foot this time, up the arch of Zayn’s boot and across his ankle, lingering)

“DJ Payno,” Liam repeats, softer.

They shift into a comfortable quiet, Zayn’s eyes resting on Sameer’s small hands trying to catch a butterfly and Liam tapping his fingers on the table to the music. Their feet keep knocking accidentally but Zayn never moves away, intentionally. He slouches just a little to keep the connection.

Because it’s _nice_. A bit foreign, but it’s nice.

“But right now?” Zayn hums, settling his breaths because he can’t abandon this obnoxious smile every time Liam peeks up through his eyelashes.

“But right now,” Liam smiles, cocking his head, “I’m just some shit art teacher.”

“Substitute,” Zayn corrects, grinning. “And you’re not shit. Not exactly, mate.”

Liam raises his brow, lips stretching wide. “You haven’t seen any of my stuff.”

“Yeah, well,” Zayn shrugs, coughing a laugh into a loose fist. “You make my son look bloody brilliant, so. It counts.”

“It counts,” Liam repeats with a tiny hum, leaning back. “I teach five year olds how to keep the paint off the carpet and not swallow bits of clay between projects. Half of them just run around mad. Manic little devils. I love the whole lot of ‘em.”

His next breath feels light across his chest, interrupted by a fuzzy laugh that Zayn can’t quite keep down. There’s faint dimples in Liam’s smile and his Henley stretches tightly around all of his muscles, the sleeves shoved up to his elbows as he leans over the table. It’s distracting but –

Zayn doesn’t seem to mind at all.

There’s bars of sun in his eyes but not enough to blind him to the way Sameer’s small hands chase after a butterfly high above their table or how encouragingly quiet Liam’s smile gets while he observes. A soft breeze brushes his cheek and temple, the kind Zayn feels so fond of this time of year, and it wrecks Liam’s hair but he doesn’t bother fixing it.

(and Zayn can feel it all through his system, the way Liam feels inside his blood – electric like adrenaline but thick like a clot)

(it’s unfamiliar but _different_ – the sort of different Zayn has never really minded)

Zayn sips quietly at his tea, smiling around the rim, asking Liam about all of his favorite artists. Liam fidgets a little in his chair, shrugging with his chin low. The strong light of the sun gets in their eyes and Zayn keeps a hand in Sameer’s thick hair, listening with a tiny smile.

Liam doesn’t know much about Rockwell or Monet or even Dali but his lips shift into this embarrassingly pink smile and there’s a soft line between his eyebrows when he fumbles with a response. He clumsily steals Zayn’s tea, biting a corner of his thick lower lip when Zayn goes on about _abstract_ and _expressionism_. He laughs like he gets all of it but Zayn knows he doesn’t.

(It’s the third most endearing part of this boy – just behind his honest laugh and the way he looks at Sameer like he’s anything but different –

Like he’s _extraordinary_.)

His foot keeps nudging into the arch of Zayn’s, keeping time with some Taylor Swift record on the speakers. With a tilted head, his cheek resting on his knuckles, he watches Zayn talk until Zayn’s stumbling over his own words and –

It’s nice in the way your stomach gets after a rollercoaster.

(Or just before you utter three very underused words at the wrong moment – when it means the most)

“Who’s your favorite?” Zayn asks, quirking an eyebrow at how Liam fumbles so easily.

“Um, well,” Liam mumbles, clearing his throat, lowering his eyes. “Jim Lee?”

Zayn hums approvingly, drawing lazy lines over Sameer’s scalp. “Batman?”

There’s a gallery of stars behind Liam’s eyelashes when he looks up. “ _Hush_ was a massive storyline, mate. Like – yeah, yeah. I’ve gone and embarrassed me’self again, haven’t I?”

An alarming chuckle chases Zayn’s smile and he tries to cover it with a cough.

“Not at all,” he huffs, dropping his eyes. “I reckon he’s cool. Cheers.”

That foot, pressed so purposefully along his arch, doesn’t shift away and Zayn’s smile feels permanent.

“Oi, you’ve barely touched yer food! Must be a right well chat between ya two,” Cher, some ink-covered new waitress with big eyes and the kind of smile Zayn finds easy to admire, giggles when she sidles up to the table.

She clears away a few dishes from the table, humming gently to the music, kneeling down next to Sameer’s chair.

“And look at this one. Proper gorgeous, you are,” she grins, ruffling his hair while his chin is lowered, his eyes studying the swirl in his tea. “How ‘bout some dessert for you, eh?”

Zayn swallows quickly, leaning in until he’s almost in her eye line.

“Loads of choices, babe. Kheer or jalebi. What have ya?” she asks, earnest and bright. “C’mon, love, don’t let daddy decide.”

Sameer’s head is still lowered, slim fingers tracing the lip of his cup and Cher’s quiet huff makes Liam tense from across the table.

“Um, I’m sorry. He doesn’t – “

Zayn’s words catch a hint of the breeze when Zoe, one of the owners, yelps at Cher, dusting her hands on her apron as she staggers onto the patio. She swats at Cher’s arm, scowling, knocking her hip with another hand.

“Oi, you tart. I know you’re new and all but, _Christ_ , Mr. Malik’s wee son is deaf,” she scolds, tugging on the string of Cher’s apron. “He can’t hear a word of what you’re prattling on about.”

Cher gasps, cupping a quick hand over her mouth with an apologetic crinkle to her eyebrows.

Zayn smiles back, scooting in when Sameer blinks up, confused. He anchors an arm around Sameer’s small shoulders, nudging his lips to Sameer’s soft temple.

“S’alright,” he says, assuredly. “S’fine. No bother.”

“Bugger all,” Zoe groans, pinching Cher’s arm until she shrieks. “Sorry about that, love. Desserts on me and this one.”

Zayn drags his tongue over his lips, twitching out a small grin, shrugging. “It’s cool, Zoe, really. We’re not – “

From a corner of his vision, Zayn nearly misses it. When Liam scoots in, the drag of his metal chair on the pavement before he’s a crinkly-eyed smile for Sameer to watch.

_‘Do you want some sweets?’_ he signs, spelling out most of the words with his fingers in this slow, clumsy way that reminds Zayn of being twenty-one –

(Still so new to this, studying books and watching videos online for _hours_ while Sameer slept quietly across his chest. Re-teaching his fingers how to move, like learning to paint all over again. Cursing under his breath when Sameer stirred over his sternum, bundled up and squirmy.

With a laptop anchored to his thighs and a dozen different queues on learning sign language because the doctors were certain: _Sameer was deaf_. Mournful faces and soft encouraging words after all of the testing, clapping Zayn on the shoulder like _he_ was the one needing their sympathy – )

Sameer lifts his brow into soft wrinkles, chewing roughly on his bottom lip. He nods slowly for Liam, signing, _‘yes – please.’_

Liam nods back, smirking, sneaking a menu from a nearby table while Zayn watches with a slack jaw, wide eyes.

“Haven’t learned much, sorry,” Liam explains after ordering up dishes he can barely pronounce, leaning back in his chair. “The alphabet and numbers were the hardest, I think.”

Zayn sucks in his lower lip, a habit he hasn’t quite shaken from his childhood, brushing the edge of his nose into Sameer’s hair. It’s natural – this protective feeling. This shelter of an arm around Sameer, hiding him from the way the world looks at him.

(this sadness under his skin, pulsing like a heart stabbed by adrenaline, and this _need_ – )

“Alright?” Liam asks, curiously, after too many empty breaths.

Zayn nudges away from Sameer, sighing. He gives a careful nod, still suckling his lower lip.

“Sometimes,” Zayn whispers, looking into the sun. It feels like he’s stretching out of his armor, exposing his layers. “I want him to feel a bit _normal_. I don’t want the world to have’ta apologize. I’ve thought about – “

(thick, heavy armor giving way and the sting of fresh air feels so _raw_ )

“I’ve looked into implants,” he shrugs lazily, steadying his eyes on the leaves shaking with the breeze. “Anything, really. Like. Just so he can hear and understand things differently. I sound manic, don’t I?”

Liam scrunches his brow a little, looking intense for a brief moment before the edge of a smile smears prettily over his lips. He leans his chin on his knuckles, catching the light, looking something artful and bloody amazing, if Zayn’s being honest.

“Dunno much about that stuff, mate,” he shrugs lazily, breathing a little too heavily. “I mean, having hearing doesn’t exactly make you _‘normal’_ or whatever. Look at me – I’ve got an awful spotty birthmark on me neck and I have a rather funny accent. I’m not normal.”

Zayn bites at his lip and wants to argue the differences on merit alone but he hesitates.

“I’m just sayin’,” Liam adds, lifting his eyebrows like he’s half-serious now. “Being deaf is a culture. Like, there’s talk about it all the time in the news. It’s a life. It’s important to millions of people who can’t hear. It’s not – it doesn’t have to be corrected, y’know?”

He doesn’t mean to stare for too long at Liam. It happens unconsciously and he’s only aware of it when Liam’s mouth slips into a half-frown, that worrying crease in his brow like he’s said too much.

Zayn flashes him a wide smile, his nose crinkling in the middle, his tongue pressed to his teeth and his spare hand absently stretches over the table so his fingers can sketch lazy circles over Liam’s knuckles.

“Maybe,” he mumbles. “It’s just a thought.”

Liam nods, blush inked into his round cheeks. “A thought?”

Zayn hums a reply instead of using the massive pile of words in his throat. Maybe he’s not ready to stretch all the way out of his armor –

( _not yet_ )

– but he likes the way Liam challenges the idea just a little bit. How easy it feels to let Liam have a small peek, even if it doesn’t last.

 

##

 

A week before the exhibit at the gallery, Zayn sneaks off a few hours early, undecided on all of the pieces and the world wedged disproportionally on his shoulders. He slides on his Beats, snatches up an old sketchbook with fresh charcoals, and stumbles all the way down to the Tube in the middle of the afternoon.

Louis texts him a dozen times, shouting at him for not dragging _‘your bloody best mate along you prick,’_ and Zayn grins anxiously at his phone but never responds. Instead, he anchors to his favorite seat, drawing out the sharp lines of the city and the peacock sky with no real destination in mind.

(not a _deliberate_ one but he smiles into his shoulder between Miguel tunes and finds himself watching London fade away and a familiar view coming into sight)

The halls of this brick building are mostly quiet and they ache something nostalgic down Zayn’s spine –

Being one of the smallest students in his year, hauling a tiny bag stuffed with his favorite comics instead of his studies. Ripped jeans and kaleidoscope fingers from graffiti sessions during a lunch break. Dodgy haircuts and wrinkled blazers.

(the whispers about the tone of his skin or _his dad_ or snogging some older girl in Danny’s basement the weekend before)

He finds Liam’s classroom on noise level alone – chaotic screams and the buzz of _the Return of the Jedi_ soundtrack from a docking station and Liam’s warm giggle when some student splatters the wall in neon yellow paint.

Zayn leans into the doorway, lips twisting into a smirk as he watches –

Kids screaming bloody murder as they run around the room, cans of paint tipped over on the carpet, crayon marks on the tables, a gallery of messy paintings hung over the walls. A large desk at the front, three children perched on top, humming silly songs. Clothes stained in clay and watercolors.

In the front of the class, in a corner, Mary is carefully instructing Sameer through molding clay into something blocky and large. They’re trading signs with massive smiles that makes something loud flutter behind Zayn’s ribs.

Liam, at the center of the room, with his head tipped back for a full-on laugh while a set of twins twine his legs in toilet paper like a pair of pirates.

From this angle, Zayn cam make out the caramel splatter of a birthmark on Liam’s stretched neck and the sharp lines of his collarbones from his poorly buttoned shirt. There’s stains of purple and yellow paint on the cotton shirt, stealing away from its pale orange color. He looks almost professional with his neatly pressed chinos but his heavy boots give him away (still very much that university bloke and Zayn sorts out that he fancies that about Liam).

Over the music, Zayn clears his throat with a crooked smile when Liam falters.

He drags silvery fingers down his trousers to smear off the charcoal (and absolutely piss Caroline off, he knows) while Liam stumbles out of the vining of toilet paper all the way to the door.

“Hey,” he says, smacking a hand to his sweaty brow, his cheeks burning. “Sorry for the mess.”

“Its art,” Zayn says teasingly, folding his arms with a half-smirk.

Liam goes pink, scoffing out a laugh before nudging Zayn’s shoulder with a weak punch. “Piss off, you donut. I’m celebrating their inner-Koontz.”

Zayn smiles beatifically, trying to bite it off his lips. “de Kooning,” he corrects, lowering his chin to look up through his lashes. “Koontz is a writer, mate.”

Liam flushes, shuffling his feet over the carpet and Zayn just wants to snog that abashed look off his face.

Instead, he leans in just a little, hiding most of himself behind Liam’s frame so the children (and Sameer) won’t notice him. He tucks some of his smile behind his teeth, letting his knuckles brush at line of Liam’s hip and falling just a little love in the shivers the touch produces.

“Probably shouldn’t be here,” he mutters, watching the uneasy rise and fall of Liam’s chest.

“But you are,” Liam mumbles back.

“Quite observant, mate,” Zayn laughs while his thumb catches in a belt loop.

“Oi, quit taking the piss,” Liam bites back but his smile, wide and telling, pushes at his cheeks. “Y’could stick around.”

“Yeah?”

Liam hums a response that sounds so gleeful, full-bodied from his chest to his throat. Paint-covered fingers push into his hair, catching with their stickiness and Liam makes a face at that.

“Had to get out of the city,” Zayn says, under his breath. “Too much – pressure?”

“Art stuff?” Liam wonders, pressed into the small space of the doorway with Zayn.

“Art stuff,” Zayn repeats, biting at his tongue to soften his laugh.

“If I’m being honest,” Liam mumbles and it’s then, when the music changes, Zayn notices a hand squeezing at his hip. “I might know a bit about that stuff.”

“Yeah?” Zayn huffs and his heart is unprepared for the way his lips twist into a genuinely awed smile when Liam leans down enough to catch Zayn’s vision.

“A bit,” he grumbles, chuckling.

Zayn makes the tiniest noise of surprise, blinking at Liam. They’re close enough that their noses almost brush and Zayn, off instinct, thinks to pull away but the soft lines around Liam’s eyes and the quick flash of tongue across his lips dulls that feeling.

(it’s like a high-speed collision and Zayn’s not completely comfortable with that sort of metaphor but – )

There’s a slash of purple paint high on Liam’s cheekbone, still shiny and wet. Zayn snorts at it, watching Liam’s face crumple into confusion before Zayn reaches up, ghosting fingers over soft skin to smear it away. It stains Liam’s cheek metallic and lavender from the excess charcoal still on his tips.

He’s fond of the smooth skin under his thumb, a shaven jaw that makes Liam look even younger and Zayn’s lips part for a laugh –

The sun catches off the classroom windows in a way that should be poetic but it’s _mad_ because it outlines Liam’s silhouette and makes his hair look gold. And Zayn can’t help himself (even though he knows he should) when Liam’s skin flushes like fresh spring flowers.

He steps up onto his toes and their chests knock gently when Zayn angles his head in to kiss Liam.

It’s one of those suffocating moments, like being shoved under the surface of an ocean. The kick back of a tidal wave. Zayn’s anxious fingers curve around Liam’s hip and his lungs fill with regret because Liam doesn’t move but –

Liam breathes out a wrecked noise before he fits a large hand to Zayn’s spine and kisses back. He kisses with a tongue flavored by morning coffee and soft lips like cherry blossom petals. With a _‘fuck it’_ cock of his head to bite at Zayn’s lower lip, spare fingers fit between their chests, tapping out the pulse of Zayn’s stupidly loud heart.

In the doorway, with a dozen children shouting in a paint war and the sun in the background.

There’s a tremble to his lips when Liam draws off and he scrunches his brow instantly. He feels daft with a few of the kids cooing and gagging behind Liam. He can feel the heat along Liam’s cheeks under the tips of his fingers.

“That might’ve been a bit inappropriate?” Zayn says, teasingly, ignoring how his spine lights up under Liam’s palm and how sensitive all of his nerves are now.

“No, not at all,” Liam breathes, nudging his forehead to Zayn’s. “Like, it’s one of those proper teacher chats and stuff. About grades. Exams. Lesson plans and shit, Zayn, I can’t – “

Zayn grins, dragging his forehead over Liam’s. “Oi, you’re full of it.”

Liam shrugs carelessly, pulling back until everything slides back into focus. The giggling children and the noise of the classroom and Sameer, in a corner, molding bits of clay while Mary watches them carefully.

Zayn shuffles backwards, the heat in his cheeks a violent red, fluttering his eyelashes when Liam reaches out to cup a warm palm to his cheek.

“Hey,” Liam smiles, his voice steady, lips twisted up a little cockily. “Not bad, right?”

Zayn softens a laugh through his throat. “I’ve just gone and snogged me son’s teacher.”

“Substitute,” Liam taunts, dragging his thumb over the line of Zayn’s cheek. “Wasn’t completely horrible.”

Zayn shrugs. “A six.”

“A _six_?” Liam scowls, huffing out a grunt. “I’m nearly a _nine_ , mate. Should have another go. I c’n show ya.”

Zayn grins, shaking his head, scooping on his shoulderbag with his sketchpad tucked inside, hands sliding into his pockets. There’s a cold burn on his cheek where Liam’s hand sat.

“Think I’ve got enough for today, Payner,” Zayn smirks. “But I wouldn’t mind, y’know, having another opportunity. For research and stuff.”

Liam bites anxiously on his fat bottom lip, twisting it until it turns cherry like an ice lolly. “Cheeky. S’that mean I can bother you for another date?”

Zayn’s lips slide up without a thought. “Another? You didn’t even pay for the first one.”

Liam huffs loudly, feigning offense before scrunching his nose. “I’ve got some free time while the kids are on Easter break? Interested?”

A hum throbs in Zayn’s throat before he gives Liam a detached shrug. His tongue, off instinct, drags over his lips and the taste of Liam’s mouth lingers like a slice of birthday cake in the middle of the night.

“I’ve things to do, mate,” Zayn whispers, walking backwards through the hall, his smile making his cheeks throb and his eyes crinkle a little.

Liam leans out into the hall, looking left and right to ensure it’s just them. “Could be doing me, mate,” he mumbles, ducking his head with brilliantly pink cheeks. “If that’s appropriate?”

Zayn coughs into a laugh, shaking his head. He flips Liam off, burying the weight of his smile in his shoulder and he waits five whole seconds, until he’s around a corner and out of sight, before he gives his fattening cock a quick squeeze.

Obviously, there’s bits of him that are quite interested.

 

##

 

London is a grey ocean on an early Saturday morning.

Rain slides down the glass of Zayn’s window, making it look cracked and splintered in the dull light of a charcoal sky. Everything outside is pale like used newspaper. Wet and shiny like a gathering of stars falling.

Sameer watches from the sill, a small hand pressed to the glass, eyelashes fluttering every few beats when the lightning streaks like a strobe light. Tucked in his favorite Superman pajamas, a half-eaten bowl of porridge next to him.

Zayn curls up on the sofa, biting his lip recklessly, studying Sameer. He’s a charcoal sketch not yet done. All of the soft angles and his messy hair, his small frame. The poke of his bottom lip and his wide, wide eyes.

But something hangs heavy on his chest that he refuses to acknowledge. It feels balled up, dense, leaving not much room for oxygen and proper breaths. He doesn’t think Sameer notices – too caught in the awe of the rain – but it’s there and ignoring it feels so trivial.

It’s a sadness, if he’s being honest. This pinpricking desire right under his skin for his son to hear the thunder when it roars or the pound of the rain on the roofs and down the gutters. The noise of the city in the background. Cars honking and the wet drag of tires on the pavement and drunken lads rioting down the streets like a bunch of tossers.

He wants Sameer to pick out every lyric in the tunes Zayn’s been playing from his bedroom all morning – simple stuff with basic melodies and acoustics and tiny flicks of a synthesizer.

Instead, he curls his bottom lip beneath his teeth and watches Sameer gaze at the rain.

Thick, raging drops of water slicing down the window with a small hand palming the glass like he can hear the noise under the glass.

Zayn tucks the tip of his nose under the loose collar of his wooly jumper. He shifts his bare feet under a ratty blanket his mum stuffed into his hands on her last visit – Sameer’s old duvet.

It takes him moments to drift away from thoughts of being back home – in Bradford. Of an old bedroom too small for him and Sameer’s crib. Of university and studies with Sameer wailing in the background as he studied art composition.

Half two in the morning, lounging in a rocking chair with Sameer tucked in his arm, reading over _surrealism_ and Dali’s works with bleary eyes.

Skipping an exam to help his mum watch over Sameer when he was feverish.

(Kissing a girl he thought he loved goodbye, on the cheek, after she admitted she wasn’t in love with him like he thought she was –

That she was ditching home, Sameer, for some wanker of a bloke, who wore cheap leather jackets and skipped university, she met over the holidays.

Forcing himself to fall out of love with a girl who wouldn’t admit she refused to hold her son because he couldn’t hear the sound of her voice.

Crying over a girl who whispered _‘it was a mistake, anyway’_ a week after mucking off to the States and never calling again.)

But there’s little reminders of her in Sameer’s wide eyes and the stretch of his smile when he’s honestly excited. His clumsy walk or the pink of his cheeks.

Zayn looks away, briefly, pulling his knees up to his chest. In the background (because Louis has invaded his iTunes playlist and has gone through an emo phase time after time when he calls off things with El for a solid week) he can hear a strong acoustic guitar and the fade of _‘you’ve haunted me all my life you’re always out of reach when I’m in pursuit’_ from his bedroom.

His teeth pin down his lower lip. His fingers itch for a cigarette (or a pencil) but he bundles them under the stretched sleeves of his jumper. Strands of dark hair curl into his eyes and he tries to blink them away.

Just to watch Sameer. To hear his soft breaths while he watches the rain.

He aches out an unsteady breath before deciding to shove all of his thoughts away. It feels useless and he’s not in the mood to be proper broody today.

Instead, he finds his phone tucked between the cushions of the sofa, lit up with a message from Liam. He swipes to it immediately, grinning.

It’s like a hurricane – the image of Liam’s bedroom. Clothes and shoes strewn about and the sheets untucked. It’s madness, honestly, and Zayn smiles down at the text underneath:

_‘mom always says rainyyyy days mean cleanin dayssss!’_

There’s that daft monkey with its hands over it eyes attached to the text and Zayn rolls his eyes instantly, chewing his chapped bottom lip to cover his laugh. He stares down at his phone for a few moments, everything in his lungs suddenly light and buoyant and –

That’s nothing new but that protesting feeling in his stomach feels awkward – _fuzzy_ , honestly.

He bites the edge of his tongue and swipes out a quick _‘good luck x’_ before locking his phone, tossing it on the coffee table.

(But he can’t toss away his smile or the stutter of his heart when Sameer finally crawls away from the window, into Zayn’s lap, cuddling under Zayn’s jaw while the rain thumps louder over the city.

And it takes him a breath or two before he realizes its three things he likes best in one quiet morning – the rain over the city, Sameer curled in his arms, and Liam.

That’s a _‘wow’_ he hasn’t pinned a definition to.

He doesn’t plan on it anytime soon, either.)

 

##

 

Zayn likes Liam’s flat.

It’s somewhere near the core of the city and it’s airy and comfy, massive if he thinks about it and there’s so much _space_. It’s nothing like his own flat and Zayn wonders (more than once) how Liam affords it on a poorly teacher’s income.

Still, he likes it. The view of the city from the wall-sized window next to a white wall made of bricks. The roomy lounge area and open kitchen, everything cold steel and stained wood. He likes the coffee table stacked with vintage comics (mostly Batman, of course) and the old family pictures framed in silver, lined crookedly along the walls.

He feels like a creeper when he steals glances at all of Liam’s baby photos – for the view of his soft, chubby cheeks and awful haircuts and puckered cherry lips and striped shirts. He doesn’t think Liam notices (or he doesn’t comment on it) when Zayn drags his fingers over the pictures of Liam’s parents and his sisters, even one of Liam dancing around in a nappy.

There’s a cozy armchair in a corner of the room, a giant replica of an Iron Man suit by the door and, closest to the window (for the view, for the _inspiration_ , Zayn thinks) is an upright piano with sheet music scattered over it.

Zayn likes the oversized sofa against the wall, the one large enough to fit a gang of lads watching a footy game on the telly but Liam squeezes in right next to Zayn, in a corner of it, like there’s nowhere else to sit.

Like all of the space is already taken when, truthfully, it’s just the two of them nudged together while Sameer spreads out on his belly across the carpet.

(And Liam looks so abashed but unwilling to shift away, ducking to hide his smile against Zayn’s shoulder, easing a shaking hand over Zayn’s knee.)

Zayn likes the lingering scent of undercooked pasta and burnt tomato sauce from the kitchen – Liam’s horrible attempt at cooking dinner. Admittedly, he’s shit in the kitchen, but he gave it a go before Zayn and Sameer showed up with paper bags of takeaway.

(To impress them, Zayn muses, helping Liam clear away the hard noodles, licking off a stain of blackened sauce from Liam’s cheek with a laugh)

He likes the way he can study, from the sofa with Liam’s hip pressed along his, the red star of a sun dipping behind all of the buildings and the tangerine sky without words.

With just breaths and this easy sense of _calm_ running through his veins.

“Was born in Wolverhampton but my pops, the crazy fella,” Liam says, lips brushing along the skin behind Zayn’s ear, “he bought this tiny, rubbish piece of land back in Wombourne. Built up a nice hardware shop. Pretty popular place.”

Zayn hums softly, nudging into the soft touch of Liam’s lips. He grins when they drag over the shell of his ear and nervous fingers turn confident when they shift up Zayn’s knee.

“Took him a few years,” Liam sighs, sneakily easing an arm around Zayn’s shoulders to steal bits of sticky rice and spicy-sweet chicken.

Zayn leans back to feed him instead, aristocratic fingers using the chopsticks Liam fumbles with to ease the food between Liam’s welcoming lips.

Liam groans his approval, fluttering his eyelashes. “Got the place in fine shape, he did. Reckon it was the best shop that side of the Midlands.”

His lips wrap indecently around the chopsticks when Zayn offers him sugary noodles and Zayn’s eyes flick to watch for a moment (for a loud heartbeat, his cock thickening just a little at the sight of a pink tongue) before he turns away.

“Me dad sold it up to some business types in London. Let ‘em franchise it,” Liam continues while his thumb drags the seam on the inside of Zayn’s thigh. “Bought a house up in Brighton and this place – “

He waves an exaggerated hand around like it’s a palace rather than just a neatly done-up flat in the middle of London.

“ – he got it for me for graduating uni,” Liam grins, something shy stinging in his voice. “Said he was so proud of me. Dunno. It felt like – like I did him proper good? The only one of us three t’ do it.”

Zayn shifts his head and their noses brush accidentally but, _bloody fuck_ , Zayn stays close enough for Liam to repeat the motion.

“Still has the house back in old Wombourne,” Liam explains, his voice going low, his fingers scratching along the denim of Zayn’s ripped jeans, purposely skipping the patches of skin available. “I visit when I can. Every summer. All of me mates are back there. It’s just – “

An easy breath turns shaky when Zayn nicks a dry kiss off Liam’s lips.

“Its home f’r me,” Liam whispers.

Zayn nods, smirking.

(He remembers having a home and that achy feeling of belonging and clutching childhood memories.)

His fingers pick at all of the loose buttons on Liam’s tartan shirt, sneaking over the springy hairs on his chest. He grins when Liam flushes pink all down his throat, across strong collarbones. It’s indescribably soothing (knowing he can do this, watching Liam turn vulnerable, both of them stumbling away from resistance into something desperate) and Liam’s fingers dip under the waist of his jeans before –

Sameer makes a noise from the floor, giggling with a bowed head. He’s thumbing through old Nightwing comics, gasping at the colors and artwork, kicking his feet about enthusiastically.

Liam’s hand stutters back to Zayn’s thigh and an exhale drags over Zayn’s lungs when he flicks his eyes back to the sunset.

The amber sky turning plum and the view of London stunning.

“Me mum,” Liam snorts, jerking his head towards the piano, smiling just above Zayn’s collarbone. “She used t’ make me practice f’r hours. I was shit at it. Couldn’t get me scales right.”

Zayn brushes his tongue over his lips, nosing at Liam’s temple.

“And now?”

Liam gives a lazy shrug, squeezing at Zayn’s thigh. “Decent.”

“Decent?” Zayn repeats, laughing.

Liam’s smile is hidden but Zayn can feel the pressure of it at his sternum, like Liam’s chasing the flutter of Zayn’s heart.

“I can be shite some days,” Liam mumbles.

“Doubt it,” Zayn argues without a hint of vindication. Instead, he smiles and scratches his fingers along Liam’s scalp until his head lifts. “Show me?”

Liam makes a discontent noise that Zayn can see through – his sharp smile, a swell of arrogance behind his eyes like he’s never turned down a dare.

The sort of kid that would jump headfirst, arse-naked in the middle of November, into an icy pool in front of his mates just to prove a point.

The one who always fumbled up while kissing a girl at a party.

The kind of lad Zayn thinks he’d be annoyed with, using cheesy chat-up lines just to get his number while all of his mates watched from the bar.

(Honestly, a boy Zayn would probably turn down while his mates were looking before, shyly, scribbling his number over a sweaty palm with a Sharpie because he wants to know how squirmy a bloke like Liam would be, later on, with his cock down Zayn’s throat.)

“I’m shit,” Liam repeats, groaning as he pushes off the sofa.

“Hey,” Zayn scowls, laughing. “I get t’decide that, mate. Impartial and all.”

“Fucking bullshit,” Liam grins, hopping over Sameer to stumble up to the piano, his jogging bottoms sliding low to show the small curve of his arse behind his tight pants.

Zayn bites at his lip, crossing his legs to hide the way his cock strains and his tongue feels a little numb at the thought of sneaking it down the line of Liam’s cheeks just to taste –

Liam clears his throat, head bowed, tuning up a few keys quickly before finding a melody.

It’s nothing Zayn knows, not immediately. Some Chopin tune, Liam explains, halfheartedly moving over the keys with a strong posture and relaxed shoulders.

He falls into the rhythm so easily. His eyes flutter closed, a soft wrinkle between his eyebrows, his tongue sticking out one side of his mouth. Thick fingers shifting from key to key, his head tilted to listen for all of the right notes.

A fucking _masterpiece_. This quiet but neon strong side of Liam. Bach and Ellington and even a hint of Billy Joel.

His soft voice, under the music, this gentle falsetto reaching into a _‘and I’m gonna be high as a kite by then’_ before he switches tunes.

“Mum used’ta love old tunes like that,” he says, over his shoulder with a sugary smile. “Elton John stuff. Ray Charles. She’d beg me to make all of my favorite Usher songs into classical tunes. Big stuff.”

“Usher?” Zayn chokes out, leaning over with his elbows on his knees.

(His heart hasn’t quite caught up to his lungs and he hates dumb sayings like _‘you left me speechless’_ but it – well, it fucking fits.)

Liam nods, jerking his head away to hide the blush. A little louder, he croons a _‘I’m on my knees but it seems we’re going nowhere fast’_ to the thrum of something like Mozart and Zayn –

He swallows down a soft _‘oh’_ while his heart slows, his skin feels hot, his dick pushing at the zip of his jeans, spotting the denim with precome.

Liam keeps his head lowered, easing into a Joel tune Zayn’s mum is fond of. He tips his chin down, smiling at his lap, watching Sameer’s feet in his peripheral before he joins Liam’s soft voice for a _‘but I’m taking a Greyhound on the Hudson River line I’m in a New York state of mind’_ between deep breaths.

“Hey,” Liam says, louder, still playing. “C’mere. I can, like – _c’mere_ , alright?”

Zayn blinks at Liam for a long moment, nervous.

(He’s not certain when they changed places – Liam looking strong, assured while Zayn drags the sweat off his palms on his denim, biting his lower lip raw.)

He drags his feet on the soft carpet all the way to the piano, flopping down when Liam scoots over on the seat, exhaling hard as Liam nudges him with an elbow.

“Sort of cheesy, innit?” Liam asks.

Zayn quirks an eyebrow, frowning.

Liam rolls his eyes, sighing. “I’ve always wanted t’ like – thought I’d look bloody ace playing the piano f’r someone I fancied. Like one of those Sinatra blokes. Classy. Serenade my date or summat.”

Zayn wrinkles his face but gradually drags a hand between Liam’s thighs, loving the soft feel of his joggers against his palms.

Liam falters a little and Zayn barks out a laugh, whispering, “Yeah, bloody cheesy, mate. Y’look mental.”

“Oi, fuck off,” Liam grins but, cautiously, they both nudge closer and refuse to say a thing about it.

“Y’ got me all bothered in me pants,” Liam whispers, his cheeks a blood red when he tips down his chin. “Can’t focus.”

Zayn rotates his hand just enough to feel the length of Liam’s dick behind the cotton, smirking, huffing, “Try, babe.”

Rough wrinkles set into Liam’s brow and he leans further over the piano, pressing harder on the keys.

“Try and, well,” Zayn whispers into Liam’s neck, thumbing the soaked spot halfway down Liam’s thigh, “maybe you can let me suck you off later? It’s been awhile. Dunno how good ‘m at giving head any – “

Liam groans, hitting all of the wrong keys, trying to recover while elbowing Zayn hard in the ribs.

“Wanker.”

“Prick,” Zayn smirks, pulling his hand away to rub at the tender skin. “Just an offer, mate.”

Liam nods, rolling his eyes, setting into a different tune that’s familiar.

“ _The Lion King_?” Zayn half-teases, hooking his chin over Liam’s shoulder.

“Elton John,” Liam corrects, edging his voice enough to sound posh, condescending.

“It’s a silly song,” Zayn laughs, even though his heart picks up a little at the insinuation behind Liam’s choice. “A fucking tragedy. Nala and Simba – “

“It’s a classic,” Liam huffs, still playing. “And I won’t have ya calling it rubbish in me flat.”

“Fucking bullocks,” Zayn says, brushing the words on Liam’s shoulder, carefully humming along.

“Know the words?” Liam asks with closed eyes, the corners of his mouth quirking up when Zayn’s hand eases over his thigh again.

“A little.”

Liam breathes out something approving, nudging Zayn. “Sing.”

“No.”

“ _Sing_ ,” Liam repeats, firmer.

“Fuck right off,” Zayn hisses.

“Sing and maybe,” Liam stammers, dragging a lethal tongue over his lips, furrowing his brow, “I’ll be the one trying out me gag reflex later?”

Zayn winces, that uncomfortable push of his dick in his jeans making it difficult for him to sit properly before he ignores it (barely) to clear his throat, leaning into Liam.

They start softly, together, feeling overheated and ridiculously daft but Zayn follows Liam’s voice through the _‘there’s a calm surrender to the rush of day’_ before giggling.

“Shut it,” Liam admonishes with a grin.

They fumble most of the lyrics, looking at each other shyly, snorting. It’s teenaged, fucking manic and Zayn feels his heart swell just a yard too wide for his ribs.

“Alright,” Zayn huffs, sneaking a few fingers over the keys to unsettle Liam. “You’re truly shit at this, y’know.”

Liam wrinkles his nose with a wheezy giggle, knocking their shoulders. He eases into a Bruno Mars melody, beaming when Zayn gasps, relaxing under the weight of Zayn’s chin on his shoulder.

Midway through, without words or voices, he motions towards Sameer with one hand. Zayn flexes an eyebrow but Liam ( _the confident bastard_ ) continues one-handed until Sameer crawls over, tension throbbing through his forearm as his muscles twist to tug Sameer up between them.

Carefully, Liam sets one of Sameer’s hands across the top of the piano, pink lips twisting into a fond smile.

Sameer’s brow wrinkles for a moment before he startles and grins crookedly. He smacks his other hand onto the piano, wriggling in his seat, trading happy looks between Liam and Zayn.

“Was studying up on stuff like this,” Liam admits, chewing his lip, “and some deaf people can sort of _‘feel’_ things like music. The vibrations. They can touch it, I s’ppose? It’s all sort of fascinating.”

He plays a little louder, grinning down at his hands rather than Zayn. It echoes through the flat, in all of the corners, just this buzz of _‘too young too dumb to realize that I should’ve bought you flowers and held your hand’_ lead by Liam’s strong baritone.

Zayn reaches behind them, catching fingers in Liam’s hair, eyeing Sameer. It goes on like that: the three of them perched on the seat, Liam playing loudly and singing softly, Zayn’s trembling hand on his head.

Sameer giggling and striking keys every few beats just to feel it against the wood.

The sun fallen and the sky a deep purple in the background of this –

This moment? No, this _feeling_.

“It’s sort of beautiful, innit?” Liam comments, after he’s moved on to Alicia Keys and Stevie Wonder.

Zayn blinks up from staring at Sameer or studying all of the veins on the back of Liam’s hands. He’s not sure which, because, _fuck_.

“He doesn’t need to _‘hear’_ the melody – just _‘feel it,’_ y’know? Quite cool,” Liam beams.

“Cool,” Zayn repeats, lower, biting on his smile.

He steadies himself on the bench, with Sameer leaning into his side, yawning, and with one hand still stroking over Liam’s scalp in awe.

 

##

 

“You could stay.”

Sameer’s snoring softly from the sofa, all of the lights on low to make him feel safe, the takeaway stuffed into the bin, the night an inky mess high above London.

They’ve been lingering in the short hallway towards Liam’s bedroom for an hour now, trading absentminded kisses, groping beneath clothes, knocking their foreheads together to blur out their stupid smiles.

These tender, sickening smiles that Zayn can’t get over and Liam keeps laughing into.

“Both of you, like,” Liam mumbles, a hand on Zayn’s hip, another stuffed under Zayn’s shirt to feel for skin stained in ink. “It’s late. Half midnight. Too much for a cab.”

Zayn smirks into a kiss, knocking his head to the wall.

“Sounds a bit inappropriate.”

“Bullocks,” Liam says, dragging his mouth over Zayn’s stubbly jaw. “We’re doing one of those things. A teacher thing. Lesson plans.”

Zayn eases up on his toes, tickling fingers over Liam’s spine through his shirt. “Gonna teach me how not to choke, Mr. Payne?” he teases and the obscene groan that shuttles past Liam’s lips makes Zayn’s dick plump up.

“You’re horrible,” Liam replies, biting at Zayn’s neck.

“Shouldn’t,” Zayn sighs, unsure if he’s referring to Liam’s wandering hands or the marks his lips will create or – all of it.

“Stay over,” Liam hums, lips catching on a collarbone. “My bed is nice. Comfy. Sick Batman duvet and – “

Zayn vibrates with a laugh and steals a hand down the back of Liam’s jogging bottoms when he’s distracted, palming the tiny swell of Liam’s barely-there arse.

“You’re like _thirteen_ , mate. Batman sheets?”

“Oi, c’me off it, yeah?” Liam says, his voice deep, lips blindly finding Zayn’s. “I tossed me Joker pillowcases last year.”

Zayn scrunches his nose but stills against the wall when Liam grinds over his crotch.

“Too immature?”

“Nah,” Liam giggles, sneaking a tongue between Zayn’s lips, shuddering when Zayn sucks gently. “Got a bit playful one night by me’self. Might’ve tried to, um, suck myself off? Nutted off all over my face and the fucking bedspread was – “

Zayn whimpers, curling his fingers between Liam’s cheeks, scratching his other hand up to Liam’s neck to keep their lips fastened.

“You’re fuckin’ killing me, Liam, fucking hell,” he hisses, teeth catching on Liam’s swollen bottom lip, hips instinctively finding a groove with Liam’s.

Liam grins into the next kiss, gripping Zayn’s hipbone. “Reckon I’m just a bit kinky.”

Zayn hums his approval, pushing up until Liam’s teeth snag on the tendons between his neck and shoulder.

“Should test it out. The bed or your, um, kinks.”

“Yeah?”

Zayn huffs a soft laugh, cocking his head back to permit Liam’s mouth an easy path. Over his throat, dipping across the hollows of his collarbones, tonguing his lower lip until Zayn shivers a moan.

“Listen, I – “

Zayn cuts off the last of Liam’s syllables with a gentle bite across his jaw, a stealth hand fitting between them to fold over Liam’s cheek, turn his head into a messy kiss.

“You were sayin’?”

Liam exhales and trembles, shoving Zayn against the wall until he can feel the thick press of Liam’s cock through his joggers, along Zayn’s thigh, the blunt grip of his fingers no doubt leaving sharp red marks on his skin – like interpretative artwork.

“I’m completely gone on the idea of you, like, y’know, sucking me off or maybe me spreading you open to eat you out, but,” Liam pauses and Zayn absolutely curls his toes into the carpet with anticipation because –

_Fuck Liam_.

“S’all so lovely. Don’t want it pass it up or nowt,” Liam pants, fumbling to pop the button of Zayn’s jeans, shimmying the denim downward. “But I just – you’re gonna think me too forward – “

“Nah,” Zayn smirks with a thumb pressed to the small of Liam’s back, their hips pressed firm. “Wouldn’t imagine it, babe. Not with you practically fucking off on my thigh in your flat.”

Liam blushes, rotating his hips slowly and Zayn’s eyes roll at the tense pressure of his dick soaking the cotton.

“I’ve just sorted out that I would like y’ to, maybe,” Liam sighs.

“Out with it, you donut.”

Liam wrinkles his face, burying it in the crook of Zayn’s neck to breathe out _‘sortofwantyoutofuckme’_ that Zayn can barely make out.

“Again, Leeyum.”

There’s a rough grunt along his skin before Liam blinks up, swallowing. “I’d fancy you shagging me, alright? Like, right now.”

Zayn wrinkles his brow, sharp teeth tugging at his bottom lip, hands stilling on Liam’s skin.

“Now?”

“In my bed, ‘course,” Liam scoffs, yanking Zayn’s jeans even lower. “Okay?”

He can’t help himself – this embarrassingly breathless laugh seeps out of his chest and Zayn leans down to kiss Liam’s brow, nodding, whispering, “Yeah, yeah. Right. Brilliant plan. Top notch, babe. Ace thinking.”

He hears Liam whimper a defeated noise but he ignores it in favor of twisting his fingers with Liam’s, jerking his head in the direction of the bedroom with a soft, inviting smile that Liam hesitantly returns.

“Not too much?” he wonders, over his shoulder, guiding Zayn in the dark towards his room.

Zayn cocks his lips into something arrogant. “Get in,” he exhales, crowding Liam’s spine to add, hoarsely, “Just so y’know – I got off in my hand this morning thinkin’ how whether or not you’d be too tight if we ever, _y’know_. Then I wondered if maybe you wouldn’t even let me ‘cause s’not what you’re into or summat.”

Liam stutters, moaning, and Zayn uses that moment like a shark for blood – nudging Liam all the way to the bed in the shadowy room, falling on top of him.

He pins both hands around Liam’s head, rocking his hips over Liam’s, grinning down at him.

“My legs were fucking _shaking_ thinking that just maybe,” he hisses, studying the way Liam leans up for a kiss. “You’d fancy the idea. Or if you’d be rough with me. Toss me down and just ride my dick.”

Liam shudders but nicks a kiss between hollowed breaths. “Fuck, Zayn.”

“Or if you’d let me take my time,” he adds, against Liam’s lips. “I came all over my belly at the thought. You being all needy and impatient. Sweating against the sheets. On your knees, sliding back on me cock like a – “

“Bloody bastard,” Liam winces, gripping bruises into Zayn’s hips to steady them. “Haven’t even got our kits off.”

“You started this, mate,” Zayn sighs, lips knocked up into a crooked smile as he drapes himself completely over Liam’s writhing body.

“Yeah, well,” Liam huffs, drawing lazy shapes over Zayn’s spine. “Didn’t know you’d have such a filthy mouth. Gonna fucking come all over me’self before you get inside me.”

Zayn’s mouth quirks into a smile under the shadow of Liam’s jaw and his fingers twine around Liam’s wrists to pin them down. He gives a slow, taunting roll of his hips, exhaling a breathy, pornographic moan just for the way Liam shakes beneath him.

“You’re horrible,” Liam groans, flinching against Zayn’s hands. “Insufferable.”

“Been using your thesaurus?” Zayn teases, biting lovely little smears around Liam’s birthmark.

“Unbearable, mate,” Liam laughs, his hips twitching off the bed to nudge against Zayn’s. “And I want you out of these fucking clothes.”

“You first.”

“Oi, c’mon, babe,” Liam whines and that’s all it takes for Zayn to give in, giggling as he rolls off of Liam.

They fumble pathetically out of their kits, feet tangling in denim and collars getting caught around faces, a fucking hurricane of kicking limbs before Liam’s shyly tugging at the waistband of his pants while Zayn watches lazily, lying on his side. He props his head up with his knuckles, an auxiliary hand dragging anxiously down the flexing muscles of his stomach towards his briefs while Liam wiggles free.

“Don’t be a prat,” Zayn admonishes, Liam’s hand quickly trying to cover his hard dick when he’s naked.

Liam frowns, easing on to his back, shyly kicking his legs open with his feet flat on the sheets.

“Wanna see you too.”

It’s a whimper, soft and broken like Liam’s growing into puberty and it draws up a quiet chuckle from Zayn’s chest before he nods. He yanks out of his briefs, kicking them to the pile they’ve created on the floor.

His hand, absently, grazes the underside of his cock, back up again until his fingers slide over the slick at the tip.

Liam bites roughly over his lower lip, turning it crimson, suffocating a groan while watching.

“Like what y’ see?”

“Fucking intolerable,” Liam scowls, carefully pulling his own hand away.

The moon, from its awkward angle behind Liam’s thick curtains, gleams over shiny fingertips. Opaque drops of precome coat Liam’s fingers, thick and glossy and Zayn can’t help but dart his eyes downward –

Liam is thick, his cock resting curved and pulsing over his soft belly. The foreskin is drawn tight around the head, just a peek of a ruddy tip and wetness exposed. Strong thighs brushed with soft hair and his balls have gone tight at the base.

He looks restless on the sheets, nervy and vulnerable under Zayn’s eyes. Like he’s ashamed to be this exposed. A hand splayed over his chest, fluttering with his heart, his skin going red from all of the attention.

“You’re quite,” Zayn exhales, crawling closer. He spares a hand over the inside of Liam’s thighs, watching the trembles the touch creates. “Quite incredible, babe. Like. I dunno but I want t’ stare at you all night. Like this.”

Liam flushes and knocks a playful punch to Zayn’s shoulder.

“What happened to the whole shagging bit?”

“We can get there,” Zayn says, smirking. “But I just want to, like – you’re amazing, babe.”

“Oi, pin it,” Liam huffs, stretching to run slick fingers down Zayn’s cheek. “M’not here for that.”

“For what?”

Liam shrugs haphazardly, curving his body until he’s on his side too. “All this talk about, well, _me_ ,” he hisses. “Not when I’m next to you.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, overwhelmed with this incessant affection in his chest. This inconsolable need to brush kisses over Liam’s cheeks, across his lips, ghosting down his jaw until he can suck another mark near his collarbone.

“Fucking amazing and y’ better like it,” he insists.

“Would like your cock in me,” Liam sighs softly, stretching his neck to give Zayn more room. “Chances of that happening, mate?”

Zayn scrunches his nose, biting at Liam’s collar. “Lube?”

“Somewhere,” Liam moans, tilting his hips until he finds enough friction to grind his cock over Zayn’s thigh. “Might’ve put it – fuck. Where’s my brain?”

Zayn breathes a laugh over Liam’s skin and their hands scramble over the sheets together, meeting near a pillow for a sticky, half-used bottle that Liam blushes over.

They’re uncoordinated, spilling it over Liam’s palm and across Zayn’s fingers. They’re undecided on an angle or even an approach until Zayn levels a soft, gentle kiss to Liam’s lips to ease his nerves. He can feel the tension vibrating off his muscles and his own anticipation turns into unexpected adrenaline, the spike through his cells immediate.

“On me back?” Liam offers.

“Well, yeah, but um,” Zayn pauses, biting his lip thoughtfully. “How long ‘s been?”

Liam wrinkles his eyebrows, contemplating. “I reckon if I tell you, you might back out.”

Zayn rolls his eyes and angles his fingers between Liam’s legs, omitting his dick to ease just behind his balls, rubbing the soft skin, sinking between his cheeks to skim over the rim.

“Doubt it, babe,” he whispers, biting at Liam’s lower lip. “I’m already here.”

Liam shivers out a moan before nodding. “Long enough, alright? Just do whatever. However. Don’t care just need you – “

Zayn tuts at him, adding a little more pressure but never sinking in. It’s a tease, a hint of affection behind his fingers because he can already feel how tight Liam must be. How his hole quivers at every brush and the way Liam spreads his thighs like a proper virgin.

He circles Liam’s hole lazily, humming under his chin, waiting for Liam’s breaths to stop coming out in manic bursts. “Was thinking,” he mumbles, pressing a bit firmer with his middle finger, watching the arch of Liam’s spine when he hisses. “You need to _relax_ and – “

“Oi, I don’t need lessons in how to be fingered, you donut,” Liam says, his cheeks freckling pink. “I’ve gotten myself off loads with my fingers up me arse.”

Zayn clicks his tongue, restraining a laugh when Liam winces at his own words.

“Kinky,” Zayn whispers, twisting his finger until it finally breaches the ring. “But maybe you need someone to help you get proper loose? Take your mind off of – “

“Your dick?” Liam shudders. “Thought the point was to keep my mind on your cock. How amazing it’s gonna be.”

“That too,” Zayn smiles and he likes this. The banter. The soft voices and the stolen kisses when neither of them is thinking about it.

All of these little elements he’s never had when shagging someone for the first time. Instead of the blur of stripping off and finding a condom and flipping a coin over who’s going to get on their knees, it’s lazy conversations while he teases Liam open and shy stares that last a little too long and their skin flushed pink while biting their lips nervously.

It’s a fucking fumbling mess but it feels so natural.

So _easy_.

“Flip over, yeah?” Zayn requests, easing away, pressing his thumb over Liam’s hole at the last moment to watch him flail a bit. “Let me try to help you calm a bit.”

Liam moans into the crook of his elbow but cautiously tosses Zayn a pleading glare before easing onto his stomach, shoving his pink cheek into the sheets, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Usually do this on my back,” he huffs, sounding wrecked the moment Zayn’s hands grab his knees to part his legs.

“Better that way?” Zayn wonders, tickling his fingers along the soft skin behind Liam’s knees.

Liam flinches, whimpering. “No, it’s just,” he murmurs, scrunching his nose. “People think it’s a bit more _romantic_ , innit? Looking in someone’s eyes and all of that shit.”

“This can be romantic too,” Zayn whispers, leaning down to brush his words over the taut muscles between Liam’s shoulder blades. “It’s like – it’s nice. Promise. Like I’m covering you. Keeping you safe.”

“Soppy, mate,” Liam half-teases.

Zayn pats his hip and grins when Liam automatically lifts up for Zayn to slide a pillow underneath. He fits between Liam’s legs, nicking the lube from by Liam’s head to coat his fingers again.

“You’re the one quoting _the Notebook_ about shagging to me,” he counters, dragging wet, messy kisses down Liam’s spine.

“M’not,” Liam pouts.

“Are we gonna chat or are you gonna let me finger you open and eat you out?” Zayn demands, knotting a piece of skin between his teeth, running patient hands over Liam’s arse.

Liam whines into his forearm but arches just enough that his bum leans up towards Zayn’s hands.

“There’s a good lad. Just let me give it a try.”

It’s meant to be smooth or transcendent, Zayn thinks, showing off in bed to impress a lover. All technique and expressive touches but this feels –

It’s _different_.

Sloppy, he muses, when his too slick fingers slip over Liam’s hole to coat it and the way Liam wiggles over the sheets when Zayn gets a finger in, then two. Biting words into his forearm instead of whispering how great Zayn makes him feel. Arching off the bed to get Zayn deeper until Zayn, laughing breathlessly, squeezes Liam’s hip to anchor him back to the mattress.

Skimming his thumb around Liam’s hole while his fingers twist, pull apart enough that Liam chokes. Curling his fingers before nudging along Liam’s prostate (something he hasn’t done for himself, ever, because the angle is always wrong but, by dumb luck, he finds Liam’s so easily) and watching Liam’s thighs shaking wider apart.

Liam’s noisy but so shy about it. Shoving his face into the sheets, clawing at the duvet, whimpering when he thinks Zayn’s too busy to notice. He grinds his cock into the pillow, creating this sticky clear web when his hips rock off the bed. Toes curling behind Zayn and hot breaths getting louder when Zayn brushes his stubble along a cheek.

“Ready?” Zayn teases, not bothering to wait for a response.

His fingers slip out and he quickly eases his face in to replace them with his tongue. It’s messy, the lube sticking to his lips, his tongue leaving a pool of saliva there. The taste is more than addictive – like every inch of Liam’s skin is. Musky, tangy but not repulsive.

His tongue flicks repeatedly over Liam’s hole, his smile stretching when Liam strains to press back. The point skims inward, all of Liam’s tight muscles flexing around it. A scrape of teeth and quick flutters of tongue. It’s wet and sloppy and Zayn keeps licking Liam out.

He keeps his face pressed between Liam’s cheeks until Liam fucking _finally_ gets overeager.

There’s a tune in the back of Zayn’s mind, another one of Louis’ emo moments, and he flutters his eyes shut (because watching Liam is too much) while tonguing him open.

His saliva drips down Liam’s crack, the back of his thighs, fingers scooping lube and slickness from the tip of Liam’s throbbing cock to press into Liam’s hole. He kisses the round of Liam’s arse, easing three fingers inside. His spare hand pulls at Liam’s hip until he’s scooted onto his knees, spine arched, _so willing_.

Zayn drags his fingers out, smiling at how stretched Liam is now. He scoots in for another openmouthed kiss at Liam’s hole, his tongue going taut to slip the tip inside. He mouths at it with this hunger deep in his belly, the echo of Liam’s breaths in his ears.

Over the small of Liam’s back, Zayn whispers a _‘you rid me of the blues ever since you came into my life’_ while stretching him around careful fingers.

Liam blurts out a wet noise, shaking. His knuckles have gone white on the sheets and he keeps his head bowed like he’s too overwhelmed to speak.

“S’okay,” Zayn mumbles into his skin. “Say something.”

“Fuck,” Liam breathes. “So – so fucking _open_ , babe. From your tongue.”

“And fingers?” Zayn hums, tilting his head until his cheek rests on the top of Liam’s arse. A quick twist and pressure right along Liam’s –

“Yeah, yeah,” Liam whimpers, the muscles in his arms giving out, sliding back down on the bed. “Right there.”

Zayn grins, teasing his fingers in and out like a cock, waiting until Liam’s breathless.

“I’m gonna come, I’m gonna – “

Zayn shushes him, scrambling for the condom, freeing his fingers. Liam looks stretched and glowing over the sheets. Splayed out, limbs twitching, his head turned enough to breathe sobbing exhales into his bicep.

“Calm down a bit, babe,” Zayn whispers, spreading out over Liam, hips drawn back enough to angle his cock. “Just gonna – gonna give you my cock now. Alright? Think you can calm down enough for it?”

Liam shakes his head and bites deceptively hard over his lip to stop the whines.

“Think I’m gonna come.”

Zayn smirks, dragging the tip of his dick over Liam’s slippery hole.

“Just a second, babe.”

“Oh shit,” Liam whimpers, angling his head awkwardly until Zayn gets it –

He leans down, smiling, kissing at Liam’s lips as he nudges inside. He swallows all of Liam’s hisses, letting him adjust, careful with how far he sinks.

“I’m gonna come,” Liam whines and Zayn’s nearly halfway, twisting his hips to add the pressure, sinking, Liam swallowing him with every shift of his hips.

“Okay,” Zayn whispers back, lips still dragging over Liam’s.

And it’s like Liam was searching for _permission_. Waiting. He trembles all over and Zayn rolls his hips until he’s buried in Liam. He feels Liam twitch all around his cock, heaving ragged breaths into the sheets as he spills over the pillow beneath his hips.

Rough exhales echo in the room and it takes Liam minutes to stop shaking. To quit squeezing around Zayn’s cock as he soaks the bed. Fingers curled into the sheets, Zayn’s lips along his temple, his skin brightening a starry red in the shadows.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, looking drugged and blissed out. “I’m sorry, babe. Just your – your tongue and your fingers and then when you started to – “

“Started t’ slide inside you?” Zayn teases, curling his arms under Liam’s chest.

Liam gives a slow nod with a dopey smile. “Y’can, like. You can fuck me babe.”

Zayn snorts, shaking his head. “This is good. I’m good. Proper good with getting this far.”

There’s a rough wrinkle in Liam’s forehead when he blinks his eyes open. His hips wiggle on the bed and, absently, his hole hugs around Zayn’s shaft when he tries to draw out.

“Wait, wait,” he pleads, a quick hand reaching back to smack Zayn’s hips. “Like, _c’mon_. Just – c’mon, babe. Fuck me. Give it a go. Want you to – “

Zayn hums, pressed up on his forearms, still halfway inside of Liam.

Liam exhales shakily, scrunching his nose. “Come inside me.”

His smile is sticky and wet in the moonlight. Zayn drags it over Liam’s shoulder and eases back down, shuttling his cock into Liam in these blindly quick thrusts. Liam sounds daft beneath him – these encouraging words and pornographic noises but it aches something bright and hot down Zayn’s spine.

He fucks harder, shoving Liam into the mattress with a grin. He drags kisses over Liam’s shoulder blades, marking his tendons with his teeth, lazy rocks of his hips when Liam starts to quiver beneath him. The box spring is noisy (probably old and unused for things like _this_ ) and Zayn feels sixteen –

Enthusiastic and eager and unsure how careful to be with Liam’s body.

“Harder,” Liam whispers and Zayn complies with a hint of hesitation.

“Getting deep,” Liam huffs and their fingers lace together over the sheets, pulling at the linen in unison when Zayn’s thighs bracket Liam’s hips for a better angle.

“Are you hard?” Zayn wonders, thrusting without accuracy now.

Liam nods with a scrunched face. “Been proper aching since you started, babe. You keep rubbing me off on the bed.”

Zayn laughs into Liam’s hair and nuzzles his lips behind Liam’s ear. “Feels good?”

“Feels better when you’re not like, you’re on me prostate.”

A shiver twists around Zayn’s spine at the noise Liam makes. His hips dart down and angle in until he can feel Liam pulsing around him.

“Gonna come before me again?”

Liam turns his face into the bed, giggling. But he arches his back, pushing back onto Zayn’s cock, losing his last stretch of composure when Zayn bites at his shoulder.

“Thinking about my cock?”

Liam groans into the sheets. “You don’t have to dirty talk me t’ get me off,” he mumbles.

“No, but,” Zayn grins, edging in closer, scraping his lips on Liam’s jaw. “Saying it out loud makes me harder.”

There’s a strangled noise in Liam’s throat, his fingers tightening around Zayn’s, and it’s all impulsive. Zayn’s lips to Liam’s dimple and Liam’s eyelashes fluttering as he arches off the bed and that’s it.

They’re too nervous or compelled to speak but Zayn can feel it. In the beat of Liam’s skin, Zayn can feel him warning Zayn and he loses it seconds before Liam.

“Coming in you,” he mutters, shoving deep, pinning Liam to the mattress as he spills into the condom.

He’s sweaty and exhausted and Liam bites ruthlessly on his lower lip when he starts to come. He thrashes his head like he’s trying to be quiet, his hole squelching around Zayn’s cock as he shifts. Zayn smuggles a laugh into Liam’s neck, a soft _‘cause you’re my medicine’_ that he half-hopes Liam can’t hear above the whimpers he’s breathing into the sheets.

Zayn rolls off of Liam when their breaths settle, tying off the condom, tossing it in a nearby bin. He stretches on the stupid Batman duvet, his skin flushed and slick. There’s an ache in his thighs and spine but he refuses to acknowledge it.

Not when Liam scoots a bit closer, tossing an arm over Zayn’s chest, anchoring a leg across Zayn’s thighs.

“Sick,” Zayn smiles, an upside down view of the moon paralyzing him.

Liam hums an agreement, swallowing loudly.

“Not too bad.”

“Not too bad?” Zayn repeats, trying to sound wounded.

Liam snorts. “Seven out of ten,” he teases and Zayn pinches the nape of Liam’s neck until he laughs out, “Alright, alright. Eight and a half, mate. Can’t give you top marks for not at least making me yell at your name or summat.”

“Idiot,” Zayn chuckles, carding his clean hand into Liam’s damp hair.

“You’ll get ‘em next time, fella,” Liam mumbles, his smile fit around one of Zayn’s nipples.

Zayn exhales softly, rolling his eyes.

And it’s still amazing – the banter, the soft touches, _them_.

 

##

 

The world is fuzzy and still dark when Zayn wakes up in a foreign bed, alone. The other side is warm, slept in, all of the sheets wrinkled. The room is covered in swaying shadows and there’s an absently strong scent of musk and lube and sweaty sex that Zayn grins at.

Down the hall, he can still make out Sameer’s soft breathing, which is –

It’s nice. His son never sleeps well in new places, not even that small bedroom back home in Bradford. Not without Zayn to cling to, too restless and fidgety and uncomfortable.

But here, in Liam’s flat, it feels –

_Safe_ , he thinks, biting his still raw bottom lip from Liam’s anxious kisses earlier.

The drip of a tap and the pale halo light from the bathroom pull at Zayn. A wolf to the moon.

He stumbles blearily into the bathroom, rubbing loose fists at his eyes, pushing his hair out of his face. The tiles are cold beneath his bare feet, an icy surface he hops over until he’s pressed along Liam’s spine in front of the sink and mirror.

“Hey,” Liam says, his voice scratched rough and wrecked.

Zayn smiles behind his shoulder because – _he’s done that to Liam_.

“S’late,” Zayn mumbles, sniffing at Liam’s skin – a stain of himself everywhere. “Time’s’it?”

Liam laughs gently, stretching his arm back to curl his fingers into Zayn’s messy hair. “Almost four.”

“ _Leeyum_ ,” Zayn whines, shifting warm palms over Liam’s bare chest, down to his naked waist, tracing the shape of his hipbone. “What the fuck? That’s not right. ‘S fucking inhumane.”

Liam rolls his eyes in the reflection, pressing his back into Zayn’s chest. He shivers, just a little, when Zayn’s fingers teeter up towards his stomach.

“I don’t sleep well at night here,” he says, exhaling while his free hand guides Zayn’s fingers away. “Don’t know what it is. Usually shower, shave, get a quick kip in before coffee and the drive to school.”

Zayn scrunches his nose, presses a little on his toes to look over Liam’s broad shoulder, watching their hands in the mirror.

“Wasn’t gonna invite me?”

Liam chuckles, tipping his head back, crinkles setting right around his eyes like always.

“You were passed out, mate,” Liam teases with his thumb running along Zayn’s hairline. “Didn’t think you’d mind.”

“I do,” Zayn pouts.

“Try not t’ get attached then,” Liam smiles, nuzzling his cheek to Zayn’s. “I might not let you leave if ya do.”

“That’s kidnapping.”

“Only if it’s involuntary,” Liam sighs.

Zayn bites gently at Liam’s shoulder, hands skimming over his ribs, shifting lower until –

Liam wrinkles his brow in the mirror, swatting Zayn’s hand away, looking away from their reflection.

“Right. Should probably put some clothes on then. Looking a right mess, arse-naked and all,” he mumbles, sucking in his bottom lip.

Zayn quirks a stiff eyebrow, gripping at Liam’s hip before he can turn bodily away.

“Didn’t bother you a few hours ago,” he remarks, still feeling confused as his hand slides around Liam’s hip.

“It was dark.”

It’s rough but, under the current of Liam’s heavy breath, Zayn can hear it. The spike of insecurity. Shyness built-in like nerve endings.

Zayn sneaks a hand to Liam’s tummy while he’s distracted by Zayn’s lips along the tendons of his neck. He feels Liam try to pull away but Zayn’s a little stronger in this position, knocking them into the sink, whispering soft mumbles over Liam’s shoulder.

“S’wrong?”

Liam coughs and stills under Zayn’s hands. His nose wrinkles, eyebrows set sadly.

“I used to be better at keeping up with my body. Back in sixth form and stuff,” he whispers, a slow hand covering Zayn’s across the soft of his stomach. His tongue licks over his lips, chasing the frown, before he adds, “I’ve always been a bit up and down with it. Me weight, I mean. Proper fussed over working out every day. Joined every sport I could. Boxed, too.”

Zayn blinks at him in the mirror. His thumb traces a soft curve and he feels Liam’s muscles tense in his stomach. Like he’s trying to pull it in, trying to hide himself.

“It’s daft,” Liam says with an artificial laugh. “I’m not a monster, I swear. I just – people say stuff sometimes.”

“People are arseholes,” Zayn grunts, dragging dotted kisses over Liam’s shoulder, behind his ear. “And there’s nothing wrong with you, mate.”

Liam snorts, fluttering his eyes closed. “You don’t have’ta – “

“I hate my arms,” Zayn admits, soft and nervous. “And I can’t put on any muscle. Can properly pack away a week’s worth of me mum’s cooking and go to the gym for a month. Doesn’t do much.”

On an exhale, Liam giggles, his chest rising and falling like he’s starting to relax. A wave meeting the shore.

“My legs are shit too,” Zayn pouts, hooking his chin over Liam’s shoulder. “I look right pathetic when I run.”

Liam snorts, leaning into Zayn.

“I’m always licking my lips or biting them,” Zayn murmurs against the shell of Liam’s ear. “My sisters give me shit about it. Mum fusses at me, too.”

“I think it’s hot,” Liam exhales, nudging his cheek over Zayn’s.

“That’s ‘cause you want to me to give you head, mate.”

“Maybe,” Liam cackles, the noise echoing over the tiles of the bathroom and their hands find some sort of synchronized pattern over Liam’s stomach, pressing over soft tissue and ghosting tan skin.

“We’re all a bit imperfect, babe,” Zayn says, dragging his nose over Liam’s neck, inhaling.

His scent, the leftover aroma of the sex, hints of _Liam_ that Zayn wants staining his own sheets so he feels surrounded by Liam when he’s alone.

“Yeah, well,” Liam huffs, stretching, yawning. “Still should put some clothes on. Think I’m gettin’ a bit wound up with you looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” Zayn wonders, purposefully teasing with his tone.

Liam breathes out something shaky and Zayn stealthy slides a hand beneath Liam’s navel, across the rough hairs, a loose fist around the base of Liam’s quickly swelling dick.

“Like you wanna shag again,” Liam whimpers, teasing his lower lip with his teeth, arching into Zayn’s grip.

“Maybe I do,” Zayn laughs. He nips along Liam’s shoulders, squeezing the shaft. “Or I might just like the way you look when I get you off. Twice, mate. You fucking nutted off twice. Sick.”

Liam moans quietly, tilting his head, giving Zayn’s lips room across his neck.

“You were shaking.”

“ _Zayn_ ,” Liam whines, fisting his hands at his sides, looking uncertain what to do with himself other than roll his hips into Zayn’s hand.

“All I had to do was get my dick in you, babe. ‘S like it’s all you needed,”

Liam’s face crumples, his lips parted for breathy little noises that stay soft, vulnerable. The tip of his dick is a shiny mess. Slick squirting from the slit, the head a pinkish hue like fresh cotton candy, his foreskin stretching back and under the crown.

“Get all proper wet thinking about it, right?” Zayn asks.

“Yeah, yeah,” Liam grunts, edging himself in Zayn’s fist. Quick, rough thrusts before he slows down, keeping the pressure against the head.

Zayn smirks, his own cock fattening up, pressing down the line of Liam’s arse.

“Did it feel good, babe?”

Liam trembles, nodding, wrecking his lip with his teeth. “Hadn’t really,” he stutters, his hips falling out of rhythm. “Not _like that_ , y’know? Never gotten myself so worked up with someone else. Got a bit naughty for a moment.”

Zayn laughs softly, breathing the noise over Liam’s neck, tacking sharp kisses that dare to leave bruises –

(He doesn’t. The thought of Liam shrugging into thick jumpers with huge collars to hide all of Zayn’s artwork tempts him but it’s the middle of spring and Zayn’s not a complete prick.)

“Could do it again,” Zayn offers, rubbing off, the tip of his cock snubbing over Liam’s hole. “Let you ride me?”

Liam hisses when Zayn’s fingers, slippery and uncoordinated, tickle against the head of his dick.

“Or,” Zayn smiles, thumbing over the slit for more precome, dragging it down the underside, “could let you fuck me. Been thinking about that, too. Get me all proper wet with just your precome. On my knees and your hand pulling at my hair – “

“Oh fuck,” Liam blurts, tensing, a reflexive hand squeezing sharply at Zayn’s hip (leaving bruises – more artwork) as his muscles contract. “Oh fuck. Shit.”

Zayn peeks over Liam’s shoulder as he squirts along the countertop. Clear streams of come turning pearly. Shiny stains over the surface and Liam pinches Zayn’s hip with ragged breaths, soft whimpering.

He begs off Zayn’s hand even though he’s still fucking into it, wrenched over the sink. He smacks a sweaty palm to the mirror and Zayn stares at their reflection.

The contrast in muscles and size and how gentle Zayn’s hand looks as it soothes over the strained muscles in Liam’s forearm. Long fingers skimming the inky feather. His lips, absently, wrapped around a bulging muscle in Liam’s shoulder. All of the tendons standing out in Liam’s neck as he wheezes out breaths and how Zayn fits around Liam.

The way Zayn fucking holds Liam through his orgasm like he’s trying to catch him.

(And it’s disturbing, he swears. Like this. This carefulness that he knows is not meant to be. Because his life is about Sameer and surviving London.

Not some boy who’s just filling a gap. An in-between.)

He’s dazed out of his thoughts after a moment. Liam twisted in his arms, kissing at Zayn’s mouth, easing Zayn’s hand under the tap to wash off his come.

“Bloody bastard,” Liam laughs between kisses. “Can I do you? Maybe suck you off?”

Zayn blinks back into focus, pulling back. His brow wrinkles briefly, too swallowed by his thoughts to react without thinking. He slides his other hand to Liam’s cheek, puckering his lips into a smile before Liam notices.

“M’good, babe,” he exhales. “’Sides, should probably get some proper rest if you’re gonna make me breakfast in the morning.”

Liam furrows his brow in confusion and Zayn lets the echo of his laugh knock off the walls as he pats Liam’s bum, twisting away from Liam’s hands to jog lazily back into the bedroom. He dives into the sheets, snuffling to one of Liam’s pillows (for his scent, for the cool brush along his cheek) and exhales a little too happily when Liam crawls in next to him.

He doesn’t have to think here ( _not yet_ ) and it’s enough for him to bury his face in Liam’s chest, sinking into the exhaustion settling into his bones.

 

##

 

“ _So_ ,” Zayn smiles, tilting his head to watch Louis, “what’re you doing exactly?”

Louis shrugs, perched on Zayn’s coffee table with a bowl of cereals in his lap, mostly crumbs inside the box of chocolate puffs next to him.

It’s still early ( _too early_ , Zayn thinks) and the sun creates this fuzzy bar of amber behind Louis. He’s half-dressed in Spider-Man pajama bottoms and a Van Halen shirt, hair a shaggy mess and falling in his eyes, morning stubble still thick. He’s been humming through re-runs of SpongeBob while Sameer parades around the living area in the posh new kit Louis’ bought him.

“I’m taking a sick day,” Louis says around his spoon, nodding approvingly at Sameer as he struts by again. “Kid looks proper sick. Got the whole Soho thing going with the hair and stuff.”

Zayn rolls his eyes from the kitchen, leaning against the counter, sipping through his breakfast tea while trying to look half-interested.

“Sick day?” Zayn repeats, swallowing.

Louis nods, waving his spoon around. Milk stains the table and Louis’ bottoms but he seems unaffected.

“Need a day off,” Louis huffs. He slurps at another spoonful. “Think they call it a personal day? Funeral leave?”

“Nobody’s died, Tommo,” Zayn grins.

“My _soul_ is dying, Malik,” Louis whines, looking like a sulky child with his lips puckered into a pout. “It’s horrible there.”

“You don’t do anything,” Zayn muses, raising his eyebrows when Louis glares at him. “You’re sat at a desk all day.”

“Oi, piss off,” Louis grumbles into his bowl. “’Sides, my dad – “

“Step-dad,” Zayn hums, snorting when Louis flips him off behind Sameer’s back.

“ _Simon_ probably had his assistant send over a bouquet of flowers to the A &E or summat,” Louis shrugs.

Zayn doesn’t disagree. Mr. Cowell has never been fond of things intimate or affectionate. Not with Louis or any of the staff he isn’t shagging without his wife knowing. He’s brief words in the lift, a subtle conversation over a champagne toast or e-mails that are detached and cold, the way Zayn expects a CEO might be.

But with Louis, Simon is – _blank_. Casually unaffected. Placating for the sake of keeping secrets, Zayn thinks, often.

“Yeah, well,” Zayn sighs, pushing off the counter, dropping his tea into the sink. “Some of us have to go in for work. Pay bills. Y’know, normal people.”

Louis rolls his eyes, mocking Zayn silently.

Zayn grins over his shoulder, scratching fingers through Sameer’s fluffy hair when he scampers into the kitchen. He leans down, signing, _‘Hungry?’_

Sameer shakes his head quickly, giggling. _‘No thank you baba,’_ he signs back, skipping away before Zayn can skim a kiss to his cheek.

(And there’s that tiny little ache, deep in Zayn’s stomach, like Sameer might be outgrowing morning kisses and long hugs before school but – _not yet_.)

“It’s Easter break, innit?” Louis asks, startling Zayn from his thoughts. “Want me to keep Sammy while you’re off being one of those adult things?”

Zayn tenses a little, turning his chin downward, covering some of his shy smile. He flicks his eyes over his phone on the counter, gnawing at his lower lip. He knows there’s a dozen silly text messages and pictures from Liam waiting for him to swipe through but –

“Actually,” he says, feeling the coil around his heart tighten, “Liam is keeping him. Gonna come by in a few, spend the day with him.”

Louis blinks at Zayn with huge eyes, his jaw gone slack. Zayn feels small and insecure, scrunching his face.

“This lad must be a big deal,” Louis replies, schooling his face into something blank, calculated. He sniffs, leaning back to drag his eyes over Zayn. “Y’never trust anyone ‘sides me or Mary t’ keep ‘im.”

Zayn brushes a sweaty hand over the nape of his neck, keeping his head lowered, his smile stretching wider. He doesn’t want to think about it –

(Not when he spent most of the night, twisting in his own sheets, wanting a warm body stretched around him. And in the shower, under the hot spray of water, wondering if he should even bother taking Liam up on his offer.

Over his first tea, before Louis thumped on his door, texting Liam and trying to burn the stupid smile off his lips when Liam would message him back immediately.

That sinking feeling coating his bones because his armor was starting to shake loose.)

“You’re off your shit,” Zayn sighs, dragging his thumb across his bottom lip when he looks up.

Louis make a noise from the coffee table, a breathy _‘hmph’_ before he cocks his chin up. “You proper fancy this bloke,” he accuses with a curved up smile. “Bloody hell, bro. Get in. When do I meet him?”

Zayn smirks, walking out of the kitchen towards his bedroom. He tosses Louis a quick look over his shoulder, licking at the smile twitching over his lips. “Never.”

“Oh, bugger off!” Louis shouts as Zayn shoves into his room. “I’m your best mate!”

“And a right terror,” Zayn calls back, leafing through his clothes to find a shirt not stained in coffee or charcoal or Sameer’s handprints.

“But you love me!”

“Only on Wednesdays,” Zayn laughs, ignoring the spill of profanities Louis barks from the living room.

He smiles into his shoulder, tugging out a shirt he thinks Liam would approve of and –

Bloody fucking hell.

 

##

 

Zayn blinks awake, the world coming into focus in hazy fits and waves. The night’s shadows chasing up the walls, pointed shapes like circus tents. Everything has a soft blur around the edge, colors and greys melting into each other. The bluish glow of the night blends into his vision like lights at the bottom of a swimming pool. Everything feels like shards of a dream even though Zayn is certain he’s awake.

The other side of his bed is empty but there’s still a Liam-sized dent in the mattress and his warm scent lingers on the pillow, this woodsy leftover scent from his cologne on the sheets.

Zayn sighs while pockets of white light filter through the curtains. He rubs the heels of his hands at his eyes, pushing the sleep out, before dragging off the sheet and fumbling in the dark towards the door.

It’s that odd quiet in the hall, blues and sharp blacks fading into every bit of his vision as he walks. The other bedroom door is cracked just enough for Zayn to peek inside at Sameer – spread out on his tiny bed like a drunken starfish, clinging to an old teddy bear, the moon clipping over his face in a thick column of pale azure. Zayn laughs into his hand, watching Sameer twist into his ( _Zayn’s old_ ) Power Rangers sheets, feet kicked from under them, his mouth softly parted to snore at the ceiling.

It’s always a sight, watching Sameer sleep. Something like a star hanging off the clouds. It makes him linger for a few seconds more in the doorway before he’s off and down the hall, yawning quietly, trying to follow the thin strips of light into the longue.

Liam is shuffling around in the kitchen, humming to himself with a bowl and a wooden spoon in nothing but boxers and one of Zayn’s old Hulk shirts. There’s a tin pan stuffed with empty cupcake wrappers, another bowl with sticky chocolate icing along the rim, broken egg shells on the counter next to a bag of flour and –

Zayn thinks Liam is absolutely _mental_.

There’s a smear of flour on his cheek and the kitchen is a right mess but –

He can’t quite help the smile that quirks over his lips or the laugh vibrating in his throat when Liam looks up with a wrinkled brow, caramel lips from tasting the icing, ingredients splattered across his bare chest.

“Can’t sleep,” Liam mumbles, dragging the back of his wrist over his mouth to clean off the chocolate.

Zayn lifts an eyebrow teasingly, sniffing. “This is becoming a habit, y’know?”

Liam wrinkles his brow, lips puckering into a small pout. “Baking in the middle of the night?”

“Leaving me alone in bed,” Zayn sighs, bouncing over the cold tiles in the kitchen to get closer to Liam. “A lad could develop a complex, eh?”

Liam rolls his eyes, snuffling his nose to Zayn’s cheek, leaving a wet-sticky kiss to his skin.

“Wouldn’t think of it, you donut.”

There’s a cookbook, with half of the pages stuck together, propped on another tin pan and an explosion of flour-milk by the sink. It’s a half-amusing scene, honestly, but Zayn exhales grumpily at Liam when he starts to stir his batter again.

“Where’d all this come from?” Zayn asks, surveying all of the kitchen with wide, still sleep-heavy eyes.

Liam looks bashful, ducking his head, half-turning away from Zayn to check the oven temperature.

“There’s a kiosk just down the road from your flat. I snuck off at half two to get supplies,” Liam shrugs.

“Why?”

In the pale rings of the moonlight, Liam’s blush looks almost silver on his cheeks. He smiles nervously, lifting his shoulders into a half-shrug, knocking their hips as he moves. “For cupcakes,” he admits, softly like a secret.

“For cupcakes,” Zayn repeats, louder. “Why?”

Liam sighs roughly, dropping the bowl in the hurricane of product all over the counters. He rubs flour-dusted fingers over the tip of his nose to stop a sneeze, lifting his brow into thick wrinkles like waves on the sea. His soft hair is shoved back and there’s a smudge of shadows under his eyes like the exhaustion is trying to combat all of his concentration on this –

Well, madness.

“I wasn’t creeping, I swear. I wasn’t, alright?” he stammers out.

Zayn schools his face into something cautious, nodding slowly.

“I just happened upon all of these papers you’ve got, right? On the coffee table and even in your room,” Liam continues, slower, like he’s predicting Zayn’s reaction.

Zayn crosses his arms over his chest, tensing his muscles to prevent a scowl from forming.

Liam winces for a half-second, deflating. “You’ve got all of these papers about those hearing implants, right? For Sammy. Like, you still want to – “

Zayn sucks in a quick breath and they share a stare for the _‘fix him’_ neither one of them will say out loud.

Liam fixes a hand to Zayn’s bare hip, fingers staining ivory all along Zayn’s skin, across the thick dark heart inked there. His thumb moves in lazy figure eights until Zayn bites at his lower lip, relaxes.

“I know you haven’t got the money,” Liam adds, still whispering. “You don’t tell me but – I see that you’re trying to save up for it. Box dinners and taking the Tube and you’ve been using the same art supplies, even though I know you want new ones.”

Zayn blinks at Liam, this quiver to his heartbeat that he’s unprepared for.

(Because Liam is right, even if Zayn doesn’t discuss it with anyone but Louis. Sometimes Caroline. And he hates that he’s left himself so – open, truthfully.

Wearing his proverbial heart on the thick sleeve of his jumper and all of those other stupid sayings.)

“So I reckoned,” Liam says, exhaling slowly, flinching a grin over his lips when Zayn stays steady under his fingers. “A proper bake sale is a start right? ‘Cause I know you wouldn’t let me _give_ you any money, so I thought – cupcakes? I could sell them at the school and – “

Zayn studies the pulses of hesitation as Liam moves and the way he’s talking slower than normal just in case Zayn might shout at him. Or walk away, like he’s considered for three whole minutes now because –

Liam is fucking mental.

Instead, absently, Zayn’s mouth relaxes into a smile. He lets out a breathy laugh, shaking his head, stretching his palm over Liam’s flour-stained cheek.

“Liam,” he says, carefully, still grinning. “You can’t cook or bake. You’re shit in the kitchen.”

“Oi,” Liam whines but he presses into Zayn’s hand. “I’ve got a proper cookbook. I just, y’know, follow the recipe.”

Zayn snorts, licking at his chapped lips. He shuffles closer, fitting into Liam’s space, brushing his forehead to Liam’s.

“You want to bake cupcakes and sell them to the parents? To try and pay for a surgery that costs thousands and thousands of pounds, babe?”

Liam shrugs and they’re so close that the pout of his sugary pink lips looks obscene.

“It’s a start.”

“Yeah,” Zayn breathes and the resistance finally snaps when he leans up to kiss Liam. A slick flick of tongue to swipe away chocolate, their noses brushing gently.

“It’s a start.”

“If it’s what you want for him,” Liam exhales, thumbing at Zayn’s hips, swaying in the dark, “then I wanna help.”

“Y’could help by not burning down me kitchen, mate,” Zayn laughs and the exaggerated pout he receives is enough to make his heart skip repeatedly like a needle missing the groove on a vinyl.

They stay like that, in the middle of the kitchen, the oven licking warmth into their space, an atom bomb of cupcake batter all over. Fingertips finding new skin and lazy stares become sickening. It’s disturbing, he thinks, because he’s not _that guy_.

He’s not some cheap slag shagging off with his son’s teacher and pretending it’s a romance or trying to find his identity in the middle of some spring fling. He’s over teenage comedies about falling in love and Zayn knows this is temporary.

(He _knows it_ but he refuses to acknowledge it when Liam is this close, fogging up his entire vision with his stupid smile)

“Hey,” Liam says with a crooked grin. “School is out for summer break soon and, well, I need out of the city. Usually, I go visit me folks but – I’m going to Wombourne for two weeks. Just to settle me’self. A break.”

“A break,” Zayn repeats and it feels so dreamy over his tongue, at the back of his throat.

Liam nods, drawing back. “My dad’s left me the old house. It’s where I go over holidays or when I’m not teaching.”

Zayn feels like the world is tilting slowly, swimming around him, Liam’s large hands still palming over his waist. He twitches his nose, bites off a small smile, raising his eyebrows at Liam expectantly.

“You could,” Liam clears his throat, laughing. “Sounds completely daft but – you could come away with me? Sammy and you. For a break.”

Zayn twists his lips sideways, eyebrows tensing in concentration and the voice in his head echoes _‘for a break’_ like it’s the three words he’s wanted to hear forever.

(Like they sound better than three other words Zayn could think of but doesn’t because, well, that’s fucking _mental_ and he barely knows this lad.)

Before he can respond (before he can gather his next breath), there’s another set of bare feet shuffling on the kitchen floor and Zayn blinks down to Sameer curling small arms around his thigh, pressing his temple to Zayn’s hip.

He blinks up with wide eyes, the steal of night light making them look lilac and large. His lip is caught behind his teeth, curious eyebrows offsetting the way his eyes wander over Liam, then Zayn, repeat.

A scratchy laugh catches in Zayn’s throat before Liam reaches down to card his fingers through Sameer’s shaggy hair.

_‘Okay?’_ Liam signs.

Sameer nods quickly, still looking probing, still watching them.

“Well,” Zayn sighs, leaning down to scoop Sameer up with one arm while Liam clears a spot on the battlefield of a counter for Sameer to be sat. “At least you’ve got someone to help you finish off the extra icing.”

Liam laughs into Zayn’s shoulder, spooning up a massive dollop for Sameer, passing it over before scooping up one of his own. He smiles cheekily over Zayn’s jaw as Sameer happily flicks a pink tongue over the sugary chocolate.

“Oi, you dick,” Zayn groans. “You’re footing the bill when he’s got to be sat in the dentist office for cavities!”

There’s a barking laugh from Liam’s chest that echoes through Zayn’s flat and he can’t quite help himself when Sameer smiles around the spoon –

Zayn loses control of a giggle and smears chocolate over the tip of Sameer’s nose, forgetting three words and how this is a completely manic idea (keeping Liam around) and the rapid pulse of his heart at one thought –

Liam wants nothing more than to help.

 

##

 

“You’re a right disaster, Malik.”

Zayn peeks from around the papers fisted in his hand, flashing Caroline a slanted grin as she leans in the doorway of his office, two mugs steaming in her hands. He sighs gratefully, leaning back in his chair, feet tossed on his desk, the sky outside fizzing from blue to purple like the froth of a well-shaken grape soda.

He’s been wrinkling the same set of papers in his hands for two hours. A set explains the cochlear implant process and referenced doctors in London and the cost circled in bright red marker ( _thank you Louis Tomlinson_ ) and just behind them is his latest bank statement, with the few pounds he’s managed to save up. Unfortunately, as shitty as he was at maths, he can spot the gap without trying.

Caroline clucks her tongue at his feet and he begrudgingly kicks them off, still slouching in his chair, comparing numbers. He hopes, daftly, the longer he stares, the more the numbers will change.

They don’t.

“Piss off,” he mumbles when Caroline struts into his office.

“Oi, no need for such naughty language from such a sweet boy,” she teases, curving around his desk. She perches on the arm of his chair, offering up a cuppa, smiling down at him.

He hums his appreciation, tossing the papers onto his desk angrily. He rubs roughly at his eyes before taking a small sip of his tea, groaning his contentment at the flavor.

Caroline snickers, swatting at his arm, reaching to gather the papers.

“What’s all this?”

“The end of me,” Zayn whines, squeezing his eyes shut until acidic colors bleed across his eyelids. “Or just the pathetic story of a university grad unable to make somethin’ proper of his life.”

“Hey now,” she warns, waggling a finger at him with a soft scowl. “I’m quite proud of what little you’ve managed to achieve with someone as brilliant as me by your side.”

Zayn huffs out a short laugh, tipping his head back to grin up at her.

“Couldn’t have survived me first week without you, babe.”

“I know,” she says without the condescending tone he knows Louis would adopt in moments like this.

She scans over the paperwork, humming into her tea every few beats, her face astutely blank in that way she gets when she’s trying to hide something from him –

(They’re both horrible at that, secrets, but it’s a defensive mechanism because they’re both horrible at sugar-coating the truth to each other as well. It’s bloody painful.)

“Still considering all of this?” Caroline asks.

Zayn bites down sharply on his bottom lip, flinching. He tries to exhale a passive breath but it comes out choked and he dumps a mouthful of tea down his throat before he responds.

“He was right moody the other day on the Tube,” Zayn explains, clearing the exhaustion from his throat. “After dinner, he finally told me a few of the arshole kids – “

“Language and little people,” Caroline suggests, tutting when Zayn makes a face.

“Some of the _little ones_ ,” he strains and she smiles immediately, “were taking the piss at him. Said his ears were rubbish since he can’t hear. And that it’s useless for them to be so big if they’re good for nowt.”

Caroline shoots him an empathetic frown that he quickly rejects. He doesn’t want it – he doesn’t deserve it.

“He didn’t cry. He just hugged me and it’s like he didn’t wanna let go,” Zayn says, blinking down into his tea. “I just wanted to – “

“Solve all of his problems like a proper parent always wants to?” Caroline proposes and they both known it’s a cheap, kinder version of what Zayn is thinking but –

It works. Zayn nods, licking into his tea, letting the burn strip the words from his tongue until everything is a little less thick in his head.

Caroline lowers the papers neatly onto a corner of his desk, pulling all of his hair out of his face before pinching his cheek. “We’ll figure it out, love,” she swears in this low voice that reminds Zayn of his mum when he would hole himself in his room for hours, just to be alone.

Zayn puckers out a small, grateful smile that she doesn’t reprimand him for. Not this time.

“But for now,” she sighs, leaning off the chair, “you should be home with that wee boy. Get out. Get some rest. Huge night tomorrow, ‘member? The exhibit. Large crowd and a bunch of arse-kissing to get your name out there.”

Zayn rolls his eyes playfully, rubbing a shaking hand down his face. “I’ll be shit.”

“Yes, well,” Caroline sighs, waving a hand around. “At least I can make sure you look smart while doing so. Your suit is proper cleaned and pressed. Called up Lou Teasdale from marketing to come in and make your hair look brilliant.”

Zayn makes a wrinkled face. “She always mucks it up.”

Caroline shrugs carelessly, mucking about the office. “Compared to what you do in the mirror, she makes you look top end, mate. Shut it.”

A laugh scratches out of Zayn’s throat as he leans over his desk. “Should’ve sacked you after that first week.”

“And then where would you be?” she asks from the doorway, smiling over her shoulder, the afterglow of the fallen sun swelling pretty lilacs into his office, across her face.

“Fucked,” he shrugs.

“Exactly.”

He grins down at the stack of papers and last minute gallery designs, a layout of where each of his client’s paintings will be hung. It’s all technicalities he’s no good at and it makes him feel right knackered with all of the decisions he can’t seem to make without thinking.

“Bringing a date?” Caroline wonders, a leering smile on her lips like Louis might’ve let something slip to her earlier, the bloody asshole.

“Maybe,” he smiles. “Never a good idea to bring someone new around you lot, eh?”

Caroline shrugs gently, lips perking into a mocking smile. “Depends,” she hums. “Is he fit?”

Zayn rolls his eyes, tossing balled up sketches he didn’t finish earlier at her.

She dodges each of them with a loud laugh, flipping him off.

“A right disaster, Malik. Don’t know what you’d do without me.”

 

##

 

“I don’t quite get what it’s s’pposed to be?” Liam hums, softly, wrinkling his face at a painting. “Is it the moon?”

Zayn grins heartily, brushing it over Liam’s shoulder, long fingers giving Liam’s hip a thoughtful squeeze (like he’s done all night, imagining all of the affectionate bruises he’s probably left behind) before leaning in to read the title card beneath one of Josh’s pieces.

“Um, actually,” he hums and he can feel Liam’s eyes on him like he’s wary and embarrassed and Zayn just wants to kiss that look off his face. “It’s called _‘coffee stain’_ so I think it’s just, well, one big stain? Painted. Yeah.”

Liam groans into his fist, avoiding all of the little looks some of the consumers give him, pouting when Zayn bottles down a laugh.

“Am I that bad?” he wonders, frowning.

Zayn leans up and presses a quick, shy kiss to Liam’s cheek before jerking away. “Not at all.”

He leads Liam around another corner, smiling helplessly out of Liam’s view, something so bright and fond in his chest at introducing Liam to one of the bigger parts of his world.

They’ve been mucking about the gallery for an hour, Zayn showing off all of his clients’ pieces, keeping Liam away from the heart of the crowd cooing over each painting like it was created by Michelangelo. He keeps them in the corners, talking softly, watching the way Liam’s face scrunches at all of the art jargon and definitions while Zayn tries to explain some of the pieces.

He knows Liam’s bashful about asking questions in front of others, waiting until he and Zayn are alone to list off the parts he enjoys and the ones that confuse him. It tempers this growl to Zayn’s heart that he can hear through his chest, the way Liam smiles gratefully when Zayn takes his time to explain techniques and symbolism.

The gallery is stuffed with people in suits and smart dresses, bidding on paintings and examining sculptures. It’s a parade of money, the sort of show Simon loves, even if he sticks to the mini bar and small conversations with the staff. And Josh, in ripped skinnies and a graphic print t-shirt and over-gelled hair, looks hopelessly in awe when everyone compliments his art.

“I quite liked that one with the black and stuff. Sort of reminds me of Batman,” Liam whispers, glaring at another painting that’s all splattered colors and blood red dripping from the corners.

Zayn smirks, edging Liam down a corridor, away from Caroline and Louis (and purposely ignoring the sharp glare she gives him when their eyes meet) to keep this moment to himself.

“Yeah?”

Liam nods eagerly. “And the room in all green? Or was that grass?”

Zayn shrugs, rubbing at his chin, nervously twitching his fingers over Liam’s open palm until Liam threads his fingers around Zayn’s and squeezes.

(It’s calming when Zayn knows it shouldn’t be because – he’s in a gallery flooded with co-workers and Simon and they’re an inquisitive bunch, always wanting to know if Zayn’s fancying anyone or who he’s dating – but he likes _this_.

This small hint of having something to himself.)

“It reminded me of the Green Lantern,” Liam comments, swinging their hands between their hips like an overexcited child.

Zayn doesn’t pull away, even when the blush on his cheeks turns crimson hot.

“So you liked it?” he asks, rubbing his thumb over Liam’s knuckles.

Liam beams before nodding, letting Zayn drag him to another massive painting hung across a clean white wall.

Zayn studies Liam for a moment (something that’s become habitual all night when he thinks Liam isn’t paying attention) – the sharp line of his jaw while he looks at the art. The light scruff lining his cheeks, the fit of his half-suit. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, his jacket somewhere at the door, slim charcoal trousers and Zayn imagines Liam dragging his feet all through Harrods while trying to find something to wear for this. Probably with a pouty frown and annoyed sales clerk trailing him around the whole place.

His tongue (lethal and distracting) keeps brushing his lips shiny and his eyes are bright flecks of honey under the gallery’s soft lighting. A skinny tie is barely knotted around his collar. He’s so casually _Liam_ , even under all of the posh clothes and slicked back hair.

It’s devastating how Zayn can’t look away, even when Liam catches him. He’s abashed, grinning like mad and Zayn’s overwhelmed with this hunger in his belly. Something animalistic at the way Liam’s tongue flicks out again, cheeks bunching up his eyes when he grins.

Stupid, stupid smile threatening to suffocate Zayn so he whispers, _‘fuck it,’_ and curls his spare fingers into Liam’s tie, smirking manically as he drags Liam away from all of the artwork and out of the view of strangers’ eyes.

All the way to the loo at the back of the gallery, the one usually reserved for employees, throwing the deadbolt when they’re inside and shoving a laughing Liam all the way into an empty stall.

“You’re insane,” Liam giggles into Zayn’s mouth, pinned to a wall, careful fingers playing at Zayn’s collar.

“Pin it,” Zayn smiles, licking the sharp taste of bourbon from a shooter Liam downed when they first walked in off Liam’s lips.

His fingers twist into Liam’s shirt, fumbling at buttons, his auxiliary hand working at Liam’s belt. There’s a sour punch to their kisses, all teeth and tongue, and Liam gasps right over Zayn’s tongue when he fists Liam’s shirt to drag him closer.

“Someone’s gonna catch us,” Liam mumbles but he’s pushing at Zayn’s jacket, scrambling nervous hands all over Zayn’s broad shoulders.

“Then hopefully they’ll get their money’s worth,” Zayn grins, tugging open Liam’s trousers, pulling at the elastic of his pants. “Maybe they’ll get it on film?”

“Get what?” Liam whines, thudding back against the wall.

“All the artwork I want you to spill on my tongue, babe,” Zayn says with a slick smile.

He works his lips over Liam’s neck, the acoustics of the bathroom making Liam’s moans sound scandalous. It’s the sort of noises he loves best – when Liam pants like he’s hyperventilating, whimpering and chewing his bottom lip blood red and hiccupping moans out of his throat.

Zayn eases down to his knees ( _careful, careful_ because Caroline will be mortified if he ruins his trousers blowing Liam off in the toilets), smiling against Liam’s belly, flexing his fingers over the outline of Liam’s dick behind his pants.

He licks at the salty stain the precome makes through the cotton, lips catching on the head, all the noises above him drowned out like he’s underwater. He sniffs while pulling Liam’s cock free and, usually, he’s a little more playful. Teasing. An extended round of foreplay just to get Liam louder or anxious but –

There’s still a light, airy _‘fuck it’_ on his tongue and he leans in to slurp around the tip of Liam’s cock without a single thought clouding his decisions.

It’s so much better like this – a bloody headrush. Sloppily lapping around the head of Liam’s dick, chasing the flavor of his precome as it spills along the tip of his tongue. Carefully dragging his lips over his teeth to guide Liam inside his mouth. Pinpricks of tears at his eyes as he sucks around the shaft, leaning down until his throat clenches up, pulling off loudly.

His salvia running between his knuckles as he wanks Liam off, flicking his tongue over the crown. His hair fucked by Liam’s unsure hands, the ones that lean between petting Zayn’s scalp encouragingly and curling around his skull to make Zayn swallow deeper.

Those breathy, outrageously noisy moans coming from Liam’s mouth. Some of them choked off, others muffled by Liam’s fist in his mouth because –

_Shit_.

And a hint of _wow_.

Liam’s hips arching off the wall when Zayn teases for too long around the head. This back and forth they share with Zayn’s jaw and knees going sore so quickly.

(He’s a bit out of practice, even if he loves waking Liam in the morning with a messy blowie on the weekends or, when there’s not enough time, wetting Liam’s prick with his mouth before pulling him off in the shower.)

There’s something increasingly _filthy_ about the wet noises his throat makes when he opens up around the head of Liam’s cock, breathing out through his nose as Liam cautiously fucks into his mouth for a few beats.

“Too much?” Liam gasps, scratching impatient fingers over Zayn’s scalp.

Zayn pulls off, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth to clean off the saliva and precome. He sniffs, shrugging, suckling the head like an ice lolly. “Could go for a proper tea and lemon afterwards but,” he smirks, exhaling hot breaths over Liam’s cock until it twitches out thick drops of precome. “Not that bothered by it.”

“Fuck, Zayn,” Liam groans, fisting into his hair and Zayn goes so willingly. “You’re mad.”

Zayn hums contently, slurping on the shaft, feeling the wet spill down his chin.

He feels stupidly proud when he manages to pull himself out of his own trousers, one-handed, while kissing down the underside of Liam’s shaft. He pulls off slowly, needing that hollow feeling that’s starting to glow lava-hot in his belly to ease through his blood.

It’s the adrenaline (or he tells himself it is) that keeps him unaware of Liam’s whiny breaths above him, too focused on thumbing his own cock, balancing Liam’s dick on his tongue.

“In your mouth?” Liam asks, breathless, strangled.

Zayn blinks his eyes open, lashes sticking with warm tears, his chin damp and shiny. He sucks in a breath through his nose, mumbling a response around Liam’s dick and, thankfully, Liam gets it.

He cradles Zayn’s head, softly, with both hands, easing all the way in and Zayn thinks he blacks out. He bloody comes without considering it, squeezing his fingers around the head to catch the slippery streams, knuckles white from the restraint while Liam sobs, flooding Zayn’s mouth.

It takes him too long to come back into focus. He feels sweaty and high, floating like taking a strong hit off a good spliff. His knees are unstable but he manages to find his balance, standing upright, leaning on Liam until all the clouds drift out of his vision.

Liam smiles against his forehead, fixing their clothes, stealing Zayn’s hand. Zayn watches through narrowed eyes when Liam, blushingly, drags his broad tongue all over Zayn’s palm to clean off the come.

“Babe,” Zayn whines, shivering like the aftershocks are still working through his nerves. “Gross.”

Liam shrugs carelessly, flicking his tongue between Zayn’s fingers.

“You swallowed.”

“Yeah, but,” Zayn frowns, a laugh somewhere between his lungs, never escaping. “There’s a tap and hand towels, mate. Not needed.”

“Fuck off,” Liam grins, surging into to press a kiss (and his slick tongue) to Zayn’s mouth. “I can be naughty too.”

(Zayn considers pointing out several examples of how, yes, Liam can be quite filthy and his mind starts with being on his spine with his feet somewhere by his head while Liam tongued his hole repeatedly the other night but – )

“C’mon,” Zayn sighs, softening a quick peck to Liam’s lips. “I’ve got to look like I actually give a shit about all of this art for a few more hours.”

Liam pouts theatrically but tangles their fingers together, laughing into Zayn’s shoulder as he drags them out of the stall towards the door.

 

##

 

“Funny thing about the loos,” Louis smirks, cornering Zayn and Liam (still buzzing from their high, still giggling helplessly into each other’s necks away from the crowd) by the mini bar, sloshing around his whiskey as he drags his eyes over Liam. “They’re not soundproof.”

Out the corner of his eye, Zayn watches the blush freckle all over Liam’s cheeks and Zayn knows better. Being a pushover in front of Louis makes you an easy target. When it comes to prats like Louis, Zayn likes to think he’s quite bulletproof.

“S’ppose this is him?” Louis asks after a beat, flicking an eyebrow up at Liam.

Liam raises his brow, puffing his chest out a bit until he looks a little less intimidated.

(Zayn smiles on the inside because, fuck, at least Liam is _trying_.)

“Liam Payne, this absolute twat,” Zayn grins.

“And this one’s best mate,” Louis interjects, an equally smug smile puckered onto his lips.

He tosses a heavy arm around Zayn’s shoulder, dragging him in and Zayn’s half-tempted to elbow him away but he laughs instead. “This is Louis Tomlinson.”

“Payne, eh?” Louis huffs, still looking Liam up and down. “Doesn’t work for me. I like Payno. The Payner. The Notorious Payne.”

Liam blinks at Louis, looking incredulous for a moment until Louis reaches in for a strong, gripping handshake.

“Pleasure,” Louis grins and Liam nods slowly, his mouth curved like he’s not certain how to respond.

(Zayn thinks of first meeting Louis, fresh out of university, unsure of how to handle this loud lad with ridiculous banter and an affection for pure English tea and this outrageously neon personality in stripes and skinnies.

This feels a little something like that.)

“You’re hot,” Louis smiles when Liam yanks his hand away. “Quite fit.”

“Louis,” Zayn sighs, shoulders dropping, his head cocked back to glare at the ceiling.

(He takes it all back – Louis was an obnoxious, scrawny twit who gabbed on about the Doncaster Rovers being the greatest team in the league and making Zayn feel like a complete tosser for ever striking a chat with this mental bloke.)

“Thanks?” Liam says, arching an eyebrow, dragging his hand over the nape of his neck.

Zayn bites his lip at Liam’s confused expression because it’s one-tenth adorable and half predictable, but still.

Louis hums his approval, downing the last of his drink before resting the rock glass on the bar. His lips twist up into a decisively deceitful grin before he exhales.

“If I’m being honest,” he starts and Zayn can feel the regret already sticking to his lungs, “I’m grateful you’ve managed to stick around this long with this prick. He needs someone who makes him a bit less moody?”

“Asshole,” Zayn grumbles.

“Asshole!” Louis exclaims, ignoring all of the disgusted looks he receives from passing guests. “That’s it. You make him less of an asshole.”

Liam laughs into his fist and Zayn thinks it’s the only thing that keeps him from knocking Louis to the bloody floor.

“But I s’ppose the way he gets you all loud like that,” Louis adds, lower, teasingly and Liam freezes immediately, “are the stories true? Heard this bloke has a sick tongue and his gag reflex – “

“Alright,” Zayn huffs, jerking away from Louis, twisting his fingers quickly around Liam’s. “Places to be, Tommo. Think we’ll go chat up Caroline and Josh.”

Louis chuckles menacingly, winking at Liam. “Nice meeting you, Payner.”

“Payne,” Liam smiles, stumbling behind Zayn as he drags them in the opposite direction.

(His cheeks burn for an hour afterwards, even when Liam whispers reassuring words, a constant _‘your mouth is amazing but I’m here for a bit more’_ in Zayn’s ear, sounding just a little too affectionate.)

(He’s not getting attached, he swears. There’s no point.)

 

##

 

The clouds are hung ash and silver above the alley after one in the afternoon. Everything looks washed out from the morning rain but it doesn’t bother them. They’re pressed shoulder to shoulder against the brick wall, trading cigarettes between their fingers, exhaling lazy rings of smoke without looking up.

Zayn inhales a drag, pinching the tip with his thumb and forefinger, letting the cherry glow, burning off the excess of the day’s work load through his lungs.

Louis keeps flicking the flame of his lighter, chewing at his lip, fussing with the wrinkles in his Topman button up or fixing the crooked line of his waistcoat.

And they keep exhaling clouds, waiting for the rain to start up again, but they must be blessed with some fairytale good fortune because there’s not a drop splattering on the pavement.

So they keep blowing out the smoke, chaining their next cigarette with the last, fumbling it back and forth like top lads ignoring the weight on their shoulders.

“You’re thinking too loud,” Louis complains after lighting up again, tipping his head back. “It’s bothering me.”

“Fuck off,” Zayn grins, flicking away their last cigarette into a puddle. “Nobody asked ya to come out and bug me, anyway.”

“ _You did_ ,” Louis points out, knocking up an eyebrow with the cigarette pinched between his teeth, his words misted by a lead grey cloud. “Remember?”

Zayn shrugs, vaguely recalling making a fuss at Louis’ desk about skipping his tea break for a ciggy. Just to get the fuck out of the gallery and all of the paperwork from the buyers.

“Could’ve said no, you dolt,” he mumbles, stealing the cigarette.

“You would’ve been right broody all afternoon.”

“I’m always broody,” Zayn huffs, sucking in a long drag that makes his lungs expand too wide, this lightheaded feeling he loves after a good smoke. Or a proper fuck. Whichever.

“True,” Louis smiles.

“It’s a character flaw. Didn’t you study drama?”

Louis coughs into his fist, rolling his eyes. “Fuck I did. Shagged off with half of my theater class for quiz answers. Almost blew off a professor or two just to get a proper passing mark.”

Zayn makes a face and Louis flips him off blindly, cackling around a mouth of smoke.

“So what’s the fuss, bro?” Louis wonders.

Zayn takes another healthy drag from the cigarette, holding the smoke in his throat until his eyes water, the kick back instant as he coughs into his fist, wincing at the echoing rumble of Louis’ laugh in the alleyway.

“Liam’s got this house, outside of London. It’s his family home but he uses it for holidays and the summer or whatever,” Zayn says, easing his tone so he sounds nonchalant, careless. “Some small bugger of a town. And he wants me t’ come up with him.”

“Sweet,” Louis grins, giving Zayn this ridiculously wide smile with two thumbs up. “Proper romantic getaway – “

“Sammy too,” Zayn interjects, passing back the cigarette.

Louis shrugs, taking a lazy pull. “So? Go get your jollies, mate. Fuck about somewhere else for a bit,” he says, exhaling a swirl of grey. “S’not like you don’t need it or summat. A proper holiday. You hate the city.”

“I don’t,” Zayn frowns.

“You don’t exactly love it,” Louis scolds, shaking the ash off the cigarette before pointing it at Zayn. “And it’ll be good for Sammy too. Poor kid knows nothing but your shitty flat and school. Needs a break.”

Zayn knocks his head against the bricks, sighing while his shoulders fall, his chest processing leftover smoke. He glares at the charcoal clouds overhead, licking his lips. He can taste the rain even though it hasn’t fallen – metallic and cold and bitter.

(The flavor reminds him of his life and, honestly, that thought feels pretty pathetic and bluntly truthful.)

“It’s a stupid thought, Tommo,” he exhales.

“Why?”

Zayn pulls in his bottom lip to blot away the frown he can feel tugging at his mouth. His fingers twitch at his sides before he replies, “Because Liam’s not gonna be around after the summer, mate. He’s got a chance at some job out in the States. Studio gig or summat. They want his help on some telly programs and the whole lot.”

It all escapes his tongue so quickly and he tries not to think of a few nights back, leaning on the ledge of his bed while Liam explained it all. The way Liam tried to look restrained when Zayn pouted and how easy it was for Zayn to blow off the whole conversation, teasing Liam out of his clothes for a shag.

The distant, almost wounded look Liam gave him in the dark, afterwards, like he wasn’t finished telling Zayn all about America. Or his plans.

(And the way Zayn sulked off into the bathroom to smack his fist against the shower tiles when Liam was sleep because, fuck, he didn’t want to beg Liam to give it some more thought.

Or to not go at all.)

Louis hums softly, his face pinched in that way it gets when he’s mulling over an idea. Indulging, Zayn thinks. Assembling some giant jigsaw puzzle in his mind.

“Fucking shame,” Louis finally breathes, tossing the cigarette. “I liked the lad.”

Zayn bites at his tongue, looking down. He swallows down the _‘me too’_ because, honestly, it feels like a lie.

(Or the one bit of truth Zayn’s never had to handle so carefully before.)

 

##

 

Zayn pushes his glasses up the edge of his nose and tugs off his Beats the moment he spots Simon lingering in the entryway of his office. He swallows slowly, the collar of his shirt undone, his hair a bit wrecked. The giant fire pit of a sky behind him, with its bright setting sun, pulsing varied degrees of orange over all the new paintings Zayn has set up throughout the room for viewing.

Caroline is sat in the corner on the settee, sorting through documents with tea and a wrinkled brow. The city seems quiet in the background, twilight easing in like a thief, stealing the last of the light.

It’s just another late evening and Zayn’s a bit confused when Simon wanders in with square shoulders, hands stuffed into his trouser pockets, something like a smile (or a Simon version of it) smoothed across his mouth. Zayn sits up in his chair while Simon drags his fingers over the frames of a few paintings, humming to himself.

“Top job with Devine’s showcase,” he says, stopping in front of Zayn’s desk, carefully crossing his arms across his chest. “Smashing, really. We’ve got new buyers and clients are flooding in to have their pieces on display.”

Zayn swallows again, thicker this time, nodding.

Simons snorts softly, turning away, examining another painting with his back to Zayn.

“So much talent, Zayn,” he sighs. “But you’re looking knackered. A bit down-trodden, lad. Can’t have one of my best dealers – “

(Zayn snorts to himself because it always sounds like Simon is comparing him to some brash kid selling baggies to sixth form students between classes)

“ – looking a bit,” Simons waves a hand around at Zayn, frowning. “Well, ordinary.”

(There’s no heat behind Simon’s tone, never is, and Zayn forces his face into a deliberately blank expression instead of looking cross.)

He crinkles his eyebrows, licking his tongue out before clearing his throat. “M’fine.”

“Bullocks, Zayn,” Simon laughs, turning away again. “You’re right distracted. You’ve done well enough.”

Zayn leans back in his chair, brushing a hand through his hair because he thinks he’s heard speeches like this before. The ones that always end with _‘but we won’t be needing your services anymore’_ and the stutter-tick of his heart behind his chest is loud, loud, loud before –

“So I’m giving you two weeks holiday,” Simon sighs, circling on his heels to look at Zayn.

Caroline clears her throat softly from the corner, an artificial cough that makes Zayn’s ears perk up. She keeps her head lowered, smiling, when Simon adds, “Paid. Two weeks _paid_ holiday. Go off, stay sat in your flat, I don’t care. But not here.”

Sharp teeth nick at Zayn’s bottom lip as he studies Simon. There’s no crack in his armor – steely and brawny and Zayn doesn’t think anyone’s ever been able to read Simon properly, not even Louis.

“There’s no room in this gallery for exhausted lads who can’t focus,” Simon huffs, shoving his hands into his pockets and meandering towards the door. “Now don’t be a git. Enjoy y’self.”

Zayn waits patiently for the ping of the lifts before he shifts in his chair, glaring at Caroline, leaning over his desk with a tight jaw.

“Caroline – “

“It’s that damn Tomlinson’s fault,” she squeaks quickly, raising surrendering hands but still smiling cheekily. “He caught ol’ Cowell with another intern and instead of begging off a new car, he demanded Cowell give you the time off.”

Zayn falls slack in his chair. There’s a copper taste in his mouth from biting his lip too hard and an unsteady thump behind his chest. He’s unprepared, honestly. Completely shocked and Louis actually –

He cocks his head back, sighing. “Bloody fuck.”

“Horrible, innit?” Caroline teases.

He feels drained but it’s like something is stripping all of his heavy armor off. Strong fingers lifting the weight for a moment. So he can breathe.

And he wants to feel awful, because he doesn’t deserve a best mate like Louis, but a smile flinches over his mouth when the sunset stings spare light against his retinas.

“Pathetic, Malik,” Caroline says, tugging Zayn’s chair back from his desk and yanking him to his feet. Her lips are quirked high, the sort of resolute smile that shouts _‘I can see right through you’_ even if she doesn’t say it out loud. “Now go get that lovely boy of yours and sort yourself out with that absolutely fit bloke you’ve been pining over all month.”

He wants to fight back or argue or even scowl at her but her persistent hand on his spine (and this weightless moment) makes him stumble all the way to the door without mumbling a word.

 

##

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _'He’s not getting attached, he swears. There’s no point.'_
> 
> (Re: Zayn's life in London is about one thing — making life perfect for his son. He's still finding himself in this city, with all of the noise and left behind dreams. He needs to focus and Liam is, well, distracting. He's _different_. Zayn's always liked that word.)

 

 

 

##

 

The village is a little more than Zayn expects. He’s half-awake in the passenger seat, forehead still pressed to the glass of the window, yawning into his shoulder but there’s something breathtaking about the view as Liam drives slowly through the streets, his infectious smile in the corner of Zayn’s eyes making his own lips twitch upward.

It’s just some parish two hours outside of the city but it feels cozy. Warm and inviting. It’s not overpopulated and Zayn likes the way the roads are a little beaten down, all of the little shops looking old and homey.

The sky is clearer here, a stretched blue cotton with lazy clouds. It’s wide without the distraction of the buildings and scummy city feel Zayn’s used to, making everything look clean and new. Long fields of green and pinwheels of falling spring leaves, sharp emerald as they go with the wind. The streets are quiet, just the hum of some old Sheryl Crow song playing low on the radio in Liam’s truck.

Zayn stretches around to watch Sameer in the backseat, still yawning and stretching, blinking huge eyes to watch the village pass. A curious wrinkle between his eyebrows, fingers rubbing over his knees anxiously for a moment before he sighs contently.

(like he’s already adjusting to all of this, just like he did with Liam)

Liam’s family home is a large stretch of land up some dirty, beat-up road, too far from all of the other houses in the neighborhood. It’s a massive yard, all swaying green grass in the breeze and giant trees stretching shadowy shapes across the side of the house. It’s a two-story wonder, old and vintage, with a rusted out red truck in the drive.

“Oh, Hazza must’ve popped in,” Liam grins over the steering wheel, hastily undoing his seatbelt, shouldering open his door. “Brilliant.”

Zayn flinches up an eyebrow, anxiously biting on his lower lip, trying to stop his leg from jiggling in place. He takes a deep breath and there’s pulsing nerves running through his system –

He’s hesitant about all of this: going away from the city, bringing Sameer somewhere foregin, two weeks away from work.

Two weeks with Liam in a village he doesn’t know with a feeling in the pit of his stomach that he’s unfamiliar with.

He hops out of the truck, helping Sameer down, leading him up the grass where Liam’s surveying the land with a huge smile. He nudges up close (because he can) and feels a hint of those nerves settle when Liam hooks an arm around his shoulders, their exhales synchronized.

“S’been too long,” Liam smiles, the sun in their eyes, all of the world around them a hushed breeze.

“It’s nice,” Zayn shrugs. “I s’ppose.”

Liam snorts, his warm hand giving Zayn’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “Wait ‘til you see inside. It’s fantastic. Me dad did a bloody well job making it feel like a home.”

Zayn nods like he has been for the past week whenever Liam goes on and on about the house and the town and all of the little mementos he’s been holding in his chest like that feeling you get just before the holidays.

(It’s a lie, really. Because Zayn can’t stop the fond smile that stretches on his lips listening to Liam droll on. It’s not right, this helpless feeling, but it’s there.

It stands out like a fucking traffic sign.)

There’s an echoing bark in the background before some black and white dog scampers up the yard towards them, hopping around happily, wagging his tail, running around Liam’s feet.

“Loki!” Liam cheers, stealing his arm from Zayn to bend down, patting at the dog’s head. “Christ, what’ve they fed you, boy?”

Loki yelps excitedly, licking at Liam’s face, climbing halfway into his lap. He’s a bit smaller than a Husky, lithe and still young. But there’s something about his enthusiasm, the way he drags these wheezing giggles from Liam every time he hops up to nuzzle at Liam’s nose.

“He was a pup when I left,” Liam laughs, nudging Loki away. “Now he’s a fat boy. Massive.”

Loki steals away from Liam, barking, cheerfully circling Sameer, pawing all the way up to Sameer’s chest with his tongue out. Sameer flutters wide eyes at him for a moment, trembling like he’s overwhelmed and scared, just before –

They fall over together, Loki lapping at Sameer’s cheek, Sameer’s infectious laugh reverberating through the yard as he scrubs at Loki’s head.

Liam hook his chin over Zayn’s shoulder, curling an arm around his stomach, his smile shoved under Zayn’s jaw.

“He’s never,” Zayn mumbles, watching them roll around in the grass like they’ve been in love all their lives. “He’s never had a pet. Or played with a dog. Didn’t even think he, y’know, fancied pups.”

“Everyone loves dogs,” Liam teases, skimming fingers over Zayn’s belly, “even mean people like you.”

Zayn huffs, rolling his eyes. He breathes in the fresh scent from the grass and Liam’s sharp cologne and he exists for a few seconds.

In the yard, under the sun, in this town he doesn’t know.

“C’mon,” Liam sighs, grinning manically as he twists their fingers together, “you’ve got t’ see inside. I bet Harry is well anxious to meet ya.”

 

##

 

The inside of the house is –

Well, it’s _breathtaking_ is what it is.

The late afternoon sun falls in from all of the windows, turning all of the warm interior gold and mahogany. Flaxen streams pound over the old sofa in the den, across the knit afghan tossed over the back, a rocking chair in the corner and sweeping on the _‘home is where the heart is’_ placemat in the foyer. The banister upstairs is oak and the steps are old, noisy things that Zayn imagines being cold during the winter, all hardwood and finished.

There’s just three bedrooms upstairs but it still feels huge. Windows everywhere, making all of the green outside filter into the house like ripe pears.

It smells like dust and lemon soap, this barely-lived in feel but, somehow, it still feels comfy.

It feels like a home. _Liam’s home._

“What d’ya think?” Liam asks, shrugging an arm around Zayn’s shoulders again, pulling him in.

Zayn smirks, rolling his eyes at the proud grin he can already see out the corner of his vision.

(Honestly, he’s _in love_ with the atmosphere and the quiet, except for the Arctic Monkeys on the stereo and a humming down the hall, from the kitchen.

It’s so different from the city. Warmer. It stretches over Zayn’s skin like a comfortable jumper, snug.

But he won’t tell Liam – _not yet._ )

“S’nice,” Zayn mumbles, turning his head enough to hide his smile.

“Nice?” Liam pouts, brushing their hips together. “Just nice?”

Zayn gives a casual shrug, bottling a laugh before Liam can hear it. “Dunno. Reckon I’m not used to it, yet?”

Liam hums condescendingly, leaning into Zayn, dragging warm fingers into Zayn’s hair. “S’ppose so.”

“It’s bloody brilliant in here, no thanks to you, Payno. Hardly ‘round enough to keep the place looking tidy.”

Liam yelps happily and Zayn leans away to watch someone walking lazily from the kitchen, large hands dragging through a dishcloth to clean off soap suds, some frilly purple apron tied haphazardly around his tall frame. He’s skinnies and heavy boots and the hazy sun in the background makes his curls look like they’ve caught afire.

Zayn recognizes him from all of Liam’s stories of home – _Harry_.

Soft dimples and wide, wide green eyes and a halfway buttoned shirt, all argyle print, loose around his chest like Mick Jagger. There’s clinking arrowhead necklaces as he walks clumsily into the den, his boots scuffing all over the hardwoods.

“Haz,” Liam grins, pulling away from Zayn. “Always such a darling.”

“Best mate you’ve never had,” Harry says sternly but his smile, wide and cherry, gives him away as he tugs Liam into a one-armed hug. “Bit tired of keeping this place up while you’re gone, mate. This sort of home needs constant love.”

“You’ve nothing better t’do,” Liam teases back, patting Harry’s bum.

Harry gives him an amicable shrug, pulling away. “We can’t all be big London city blokes like you, Payno.”

Liam sniffs a laugh, scrubbing his fingers through Harry’s loose curls. “Shut it, you.”

“So this is him?”

Zayn startles a little when Harry drags his eyes over him, wincing at Harry’s almost manic grin.

(It’s a bit like Louis’ but without the purposeful insinuation or smoldering.)

“Yes,” Liam whines, his cheeks already frosting pink, eyes scrunched. “That’s Zayn.”

Harry hums, chewing at his lower lip, tilting his head to examine Zayn. “He’s beautiful,” he says in this deep voice that Zayn’s sure is meant to be a whisper but it’s not. “Didn’t expect that. Nice cheekbones, though. Sure he’s not mental?”

Liam groans, shoving at Harry, reaching a quick hand out to steady Harry when he nearly falls over. Zayn laughs softly into his hand, shaking his head.

“I’ve heard lovely things about you, Zayn, honestly,” Harry grins when he’s settled, curving a long arm around Liam’s waist. “Payno is absolutely _mad about you_ – “

“Shut it, Haz,” Liam hisses, ducking his head.

“ – and says you’re quite the bang in the sack,” Harry continues, waving Liam off with the dishtowel. “Top marks. Prattles on like a – “

“Alright, well,” Liam groans, knocking his hip roughly with Harry’s before squirming away, shuffling until he’s next to Zayn. He’s bashful when he eases a hand over Zayn’s hip but Zayn pretends not to notice.

(He also ignores this train wreck of a heartbeat behind his chest at the thought of late night calls between the two, chatting about Zayn over shitty infomercials, Liam listing the endless things about Zayn he fancies –

Fucking hell.)

“Haz, Nialler, and me were like the Three Musketeers around here. All through sixth form,” Liam says, his chest puffing out like he can’t compose himself. “A right riot we were.”

“Up until this one left for uni,” Harry smirks, jerking a thumb at Liam. “The prat abandoned us.”

“Sod off,” Liam laughs, shaking his head. “You lot could’ve came with me. I wasn’t that far.”

“Nah,” Harry says, crossing his arms, his smile halfway cheeky but mostly proud when he looks at Liam affectionately. “You needed out, Li. City’s not f’r me and Ni. We’re just a bunch of common, small town lads. Kicking about and doing nothing.”

Liam clears his throat roughly, something teasing smoothing over his lips. “Shagging about, y’mean. Soon as I left, you bastards.”

In the sunlight, it’s nearly impossible to see, but there’s a tint of blush high on Harry’s cheeks. He whistles softly, leaning back on his heels, shrugging at Liam.

“Alright, alright. Me and Ni might’ve started shagging around after y’ left,” Harry admits, his grin turning suggestive. “But c’mon, mate, you left us. There’s the pub, Sainsbury’s and shit for nowt to do ‘round here. We were lonely.”

Zayn licks at the smile on his lips, catching the hint of fondness in Harry’s face when he talks. Like he’s holding something else in. Something bigger.

“You were madly in love,” Liam accuses with a giggle. “Since year ten, bro. When he bought you _the Deathly Hallows_ for Christmas.”

“Bullshit,” Harry argues with a shy smirk.

“You’re a wizard Harry!” Liam laughs, teasing breaths into the crook of Zayn’s neck.

“Fuck off, mate and that’s not even funny anymore, Payno,” Harry pouts, cocking a hip and tapping his foot on the floor like some chastising mum. “He wanted my cock and I wanted someone to chat about with after you left.”

“Gross, Styles,” Liam snickers.

Harry shrugs absentmindedly, lips still puckered into a childish pout. “He snogged me first.”

Liam sighs out the last of his laugh, trembling against Zayn, and Zayn watches them with a scrunched nose, lips teased all the way wide. He think it’s something like looking at him and Louis – the stupid banter and broad smiles. Just lads taking the piss at each other.

Harry tosses the dishtowel at Liam, muttering something about a pot of stew in the oven, flipping Liam off when he shouts a _‘thanks.’_ He scoops his keys out of the bowl on the desk by the door, winking at Zayn.

“Coming by the pub later? Supper and beers on me, bro,” he offers, twisting the knob.

“Wouldn’t think of anything else,” Liam agrees. “Your husband will be there, eh?”

Harry scowls at him, rolling his eyes. “Bugger off, you twit,” he huffs, jerking open the door. “Looking forward to chatting with you, Zayn. Fresh box of condoms in the cupboards. Have fun, lads.”

Harry’s cackle echoes in the foyer as he darts out the door and Liam’s hot cheek is pressed to Zayn’s neck for a whole two minutes before he looks up shyly, his brow wrinkled and his smile embarrassingly small.

“No more banter about me best mate back in London,” Zayn warns, playfully, pinching Liam’s hip.

Liam sighs, nodding, sneaking up to kiss at Zayn’s lips. The sun circles them in a fuzzy halo and it feels a bit like a loose, knit jumper that Zayn wants to tell Liam all about.

(just not yet.)

 

##

 

The wind shifts like the slow strum of an acoustic guitar – it’s recognizable from any distance.

Sunlight keeps falling in Zayn’s eyes, little coin drops of gold, but he watches with a grin as Sameer and Loki continue to chase each other around the backyard. It’s all open space, soft grass and strong trees, hills just beyond the fence.

They’re breathless and happy, stumbling over each other, knocking down into the grass. There’s a smear of dirt along Sameer’s cheek, his clothes stained green but he keeps cuddling to Loki. Loud laughter like the hollow of a tornado into the afternoon.

Everything is beginning to turn pink and orange overhead, the start of the evening, the world looking larger. Zayn feels Liam before he hears him, strong arms coming from behind, artful hands stretching over Zayn’s chest. A chin on his shoulder, a smile in Zayn’s peripheral.

Somewhere, this all fits into that empty slot in Zayn’s life he hasn’t bothered trying to fill. The clean scent of grass and the beginning ache of summer all around. The falling sun, the choppy breeze. The warmth of arms secure around him. The tickle of his son’s laughter in his ears and he doesn’t have to think for a moment. Not about the city or not having enough money or all the noises Sameer can’t hear.

Not anything for a moment.

“Ought to unpack, get ‘im cleaned up and head down to the pub,” Liam suggests. His stubble itches on Zayn’s cheek but he wouldn’t trade it off, he thinks. “Wanna take you to see Nialler.”

Zayn nods, inhaling and holding it like he does with a cigarette. Until he wants to choke.

No, just until Sameer’s spread out in the grass, Loki’s head propped on his chest, the day fading off into something else.

Something different.

 

##

 

The Greyhound is a nice, simple pub.

Old and dusty, like this is how the townspeople want it to stay. _Theirs_. Wooden benches for booths and greasy grub, salty chips, malty beer. An old jukebox strumming out the Wallflowers, dead cigarettes coughing off the last of smoke from ashtrays. The scent of draught beers and cheap wine all around.

And just behind the bar, in a newsy cap with a towel thrown over his shoulder and a laugh like spring thunderstorms, is Niall –

He’s a lot like neon glowsticks at a rave – no one can really take their eyes away. A crooked grin and electric currents for eyes, pale skin, a rubbish blonde dye job that makes his freckles stand out.

“Oi, look what the bloody weather brought int’a town! Feckin’ Payno, get over ‘ere before I haul yer arse ‘round,” he shouts, spreading three shot glasses across the bar, spilling whiskey freely across the wood.

Zayn thinks, with a shy smile bitten by his teeth, he’s already a little bit in love with Niall.

There’s a small, echoing cheer from the crowd of people inside that stings a pink to Liam’s cheeks. He waves, high-fives a few of them, grinning stupidly as familiar faces fill out the tables and bar. Zayn follows a bit nervously, Sameer already clinging to his leg, making him stumble as he tries to keep up with Liam.

“Careful now,” Harry warns, leaning on a pool table, raising a half-finished beer at them. “Payno’s gone and got a family on us.”

“Oi, trying somethin’ new out then?” Niall asks, leaning on the bar, slowly sizing Zayn up. “Ace. Me too. Have a gander.”

He hops around behind the bar, scuffing a foot up on the wood, waggling it around to show off a brown boot.

“Boots,” Niall grins, ignoring the obvious roll of Harry’s eyes from the corner, dragging his foot down with a pained expression (and Zayn’s not too sure if it’s from the knee surgery Liam told him about on the drive up or the impossibly skintight jeans Zayn thinks Niall might’ve nicked from Harry’s closet) before wiping down the counter.

“Harold has been an awful influence,” Liam teases, flopping down on a stool at the bar. He preens at the _‘fuck off Leemo, s’not my name’_ Harry shouts and returns with a _‘love you Harry’_ that half the pub chuckles at.

“Idiots,” Niall smirks, gesturing towards a pair of empty stools next to Liam. “C’mon now. Can’t have a proper chat wit’ ya if you’re dicking about back there.”

Zayn flexes an eyebrow up, swallowing back a laugh. He definitely thinks he could fall in love with Niall.

He’s loud and brash, a fluorescent version of Louis, Zayn thinks. A kinder smile, a contagious laugh that settles most of Zayn’s nerves as he lifts Sameer up onto a stool, scooting it close before taking his own next to Liam.

An arm stretches around his back, Liam’s warm hand low on his spine, fuzzy circles from his thumb like Zayn needs the reassurance and he _doesn’t_ , he swears but –

(it’s bloody frustrating how Liam is learning all of his little ticks about Zayn – biting his lip, chewing his thumbnail, looking around too much – and slowly finding all of these little quirks to fix them – a hand on his back, a kiss smoothed to his jaw, humming some old Usher tune near his ear – like _fuck off right now Liam Payne._ )

Zayn leans into the touch, shyly.

“So, you’re the Zayn my best mate keeps gobbing about?” Niall hums, leaning back, wrinkling his nose with his pouty smile. “Fair play to you!”

Zayn flushes a little (he feels ridiculous) before exhaling, scratching at his temple with a smile, “I wouldn’t say – “

“Don’t,” Harry warns with a laugh. “He’ll keep nagging you ‘til you admit it.”

“I will,” Niall confirms, Liam mumbling a _‘he will’_ under his breath, faking a cough when Niall tossing him an amused glare.

Zayn sighs fondly, shrugging. “We’re cool.”

“Cool,” Niall repeats, wrapping his tongue curiously around each letter. He’s a bit smug when he says, “Payno, you’re fucked.”

Liam makes an appalled face, blowing a raspberry at Niall. Zayn shuffles in his seat, too many eyes searching over him, at Sameer. It feels like secondary school, his skin too different, his name too uncommon. Something stirs cold in his blood but Liam’s hand keeps rubbing, slow comforting strokes even though he’s trading looks with Niall and Harry instead of Zayn.

(But it’s like _he knows_ and that’s a bit more maddening for Zayn than all of the obvious stares he gets.)

“London has done awful things t’you, Payno,” Niall teases, reaching over the bar to ruffle Liam’s already day-worn hair. It’s a mess after his fingers, standing up everywhere and Zayn snorts with his shoulders up to his ears, hiding his laugh in his forearm.

“Tosser,” Liam grins, smacking Niall’s hand away. “You make me look terrible.”

“You do that y’self,” Niall mentions, tipping a beer bottle at Liam before taking a swig.

Harry snorts, nodding. “True story.”

“Piss off, the both of you,” Liam grumbles, cheeks bright like pink spotlights, eyebrows scrunched together when he giggles.

“And this here must be the wee bit Hazza says really stole ye heart,” Niall beams, shuffling over towards Sameer. He tugs a cocktail napkin from his back pocket, scribbling with a blue Bic onto the surface before shoving it at Sameer with a lopsided grin.

 _‘cherry coke???’_ is inked to the napkin, a poorly done smiley face on the bottom corner.

Sameer tilts his head, curiously, unsure of the words for a moment. Zayn carefully signs it out to him before he grins one of those crookedly child-like smiles he usually offers shyly to strangers. He gives a slow nod, shrinking a bit when Niall cackles.

“Manners on this one,” Niall cheers, cracking the top off a bottled Cola before sliding it towards Sameer. “Sammy, yeah? Brilliant. Fits right in with this lot. Strong lad, I c’n tell.”

“He’s gonna have to be to hang about this bunch,” Liam says, half of his words smudged into the round of Zayn’s shoulder, his warm nose skimming Zayn’s neck. “Alright?”

His hand keeps rounding the same spot, burning an embarrassingly bright star into Zayn’s spine and he gives a jerky nod, trying to steal away from the stare Niall’s giving him.

(Not like a stranger. Or an outsider. More like a companion. Someone new but welcome.

It terrifies Zayn in the way kissing Liam feels so – _easy_.)

“Well, that’s that,” Niall says, raising his brow at Zayn and he’s not sure what Niall’s referring to so he doesn’t ask. Instead, he settles on his stool, his leg jumping every few seconds while Liam soothes fingers along his back and Sameer hiccups around his sips of Cola.

 

##

 

Niall yells at the kitchen for plates of chips and mash and steaming vegetable stew. The scent alone makes the room feel homely, something Zayn adores instantly. Liam makes rounds through the pub, flopping down at table after table for small talk with old mates, the lifers that want to chat up his parents.

Harry replaces Liam on the stool, grinning and stealing most of Zayn’s chips. He talks in this methodically slow, honey-thick voice while telling stories about the three of them in school, his job at the bakery with Liam’s sisters, nicking tarts from the pantry for Niall.

“Nothing but trouble, those two,” Harry laughs, smacking a heavy hand on the dull wood of the bar.

“Payno was the leader!” Niall announces with a twisted grin.

Liam smiles shyly from the pool table, bubblegum pink lips wrapping neatly around the neck of his beer bottle. Zayn forces himself to look away quickly, darting his eyes from Niall’s when he wriggles his eyebrows.

Niall smiles a little too fondly at Harry from behind the bar, slipping a snapback backwards over Harry’s curls between filling beer orders. Their fingers keep brushing over the bar, sneaky touches and lopsided grins like they’re keeping a secret from the whole world – except the whole town seems to know about it.

“Quit with the married stuff,” a lad with tie-dye hair says, plopping down at the bar. “Oi, when d’ya start lettin’ little ones be sat at the bar?”

Sameer blinks curiously at all of the ink scattered over the boy’s pale skin, his smile stretched out like a joker.

“Oi, off wit’ ya. Always complaining when all ye want is a bloody Carling f’r free, Mikey,” Niall grins, cleaning out a few pint glasses with a towel. He snaps the end at Michael, shaking a finger at him. “’Sides, this boy wonder is me new sidekick. Sammy the Great, says me.”

Michael puckers his lips into a teasing pout, reaching across the bar to steal a few cherries and a fist pound from Harry.

“Whatever,” Michael huffs, grinning appreciatively when Niall slides him a bottle. “Long as he’s paying, I’m in.”

“Bloody wanker,” Niall says with an eye-roll, leaning back towards Zayn. “You’ll love this crowd.”

Zayn hums softly, waggling his eyebrows. He feels when Liam nudges between him and Sameer, scooping Sameer up with one arm to snatch his stool, easing Sameer onto his lap. It’s a little too –

He’s not certain of the word but the way Sameer and Liam fit together – Sameer leaning into Liam’s chest, Liam’s arm going protectively around his waist to secure him – makes Zayn sweat.

The pub is starting to fill out now, the gaps in the seats stuffed with the after supper crowd. It’s noisier, the strain of that one tune about _‘you’ve got a fast car’_ pulsing from the jukebox. Bottles of Beck’s fill the tables, loud conversations and shouts of _‘welcome back’_ thrown at Liam from every corner.

He half-turns back to Harry, pinning his lower lip with his teeth, and listens to Harry go on about community college, studying general education only to follow his first ( _‘second, you shit,’_ Niall interrupts with a smirk) real love: photography.

Harry shrugs, shoving a mouthful of peanuts in his mouth. “Nothing major, really,” he says offhandedly. “I just love doing it. It’s fun.”

“Oi, don’t let this one fool ya,” Niall snickers, leaning on the bar. He fixes loose curls behind Harry’s ear with a soft smile before adding, “He’s bloody brilliant. Sells his photos to some top rag back in London. Drags in plenty pounds for his work.”

Harry shrugs again, a put upon aloof grin on his lips but his chin tilts down a little like he’s humiliated about it all. It’s endearing, like everything Harry does, and Zayn gives his shoulder a squeeze like he’s impressed.

“Plenty offers in the city for a few sessions,” Harry admits, taking the beer Niall offers him, their fingers twisting together around the neck, “but I could never leave all of this. I’m a bit of a small town bloke. Simple living.”

“You just couldn’t imagine leaving me behind,” Niall declares, his smile toothy and jagged. “Me feckin’ cock is legendary!”

Harry blushes a bright rose, sputtering around his beer, and the entire pub rattles with laughter, noisy catcalls that make Niall stand a little taller behind the bar.

Liam’s laugh is half in Zayn’s ears and his hand returns to the dip in Zayn’s spine and, alright, he could fall in love with this place.

(and a few other things too)

 

##

 

The pub finally shuts down a little after midnight and, by half one, they’re crowded around the breakfast table near the window in Liam’s kitchen with playing cards and beers. There’s a fresh kettle on the hob and a frozen pizza Harry finds stuffed in the freezer (an _‘incase Liam ever decides to cook emergencies’_ Harry assures them with a laugh and Liam flipping him off) toasting in the oven. Zayn’s tucked Sameer away in one of the bedrooms, grinning from the doorway as Loki scampered in, hopping on the bed to cuddle protectively around Sameer like their bond is already unbreakable.

The night makes all of the shadows look bluish chrome in this big house and it tickles over Zayn’s bones like he’s already –

It feels oddly like home.

Zayn is sat next to Liam, a lazy arm draped across the back of his chair, fingers smoothing over the soft skin on the nape of Liam’s neck. He listens to them go on and on, howling like a pack of teenaged wolves, draining bottles of beers and smiling dopily at each other. It reminds him a little of Bradford, Ant and Danny, his cousins too, dangling their legs off rooftops and passing around a spliff while giggling at the moon.

That brotherhood that never seems to weather away, no matter how long it’s been.

“Christ, you were absolutely mad over Dani,” Niall snickers into Harry’s shoulder.

Their fingers are a mesh of cream and milk on the table, tangled, Harry’s thumb gentling over Niall’s rough knuckles. Dull silver rings on Harry’s fingers almost hidden as they vine around Niall’s.

It’s distractingly affectionate, how they do it while acting like a bunch of frats out on the piss.

“Wasn’t,” Liam protests, but there’s little conviction in his voice. “She was nice.”

Harry rolls his eyes, leaning his chin on Niall’s shoulder. “Took you ages to get over her, Li. Thought you’d marry her, eh?”

Liam splutters, groaning. “One night out with you lads, I swear. You lot got me pissed on Jameson. I was eighteen!”

“Eighteen and grossly in love, mate,” Niall notes, tipping his beer at Liam. “Feckin’ gross, man.”

Liam shrugs, leaning into Zayn’s fingers like he needs the touch. Like he’s reminding Zayn he’s all _his_ now.

(And Zayn hasn’t thought about that – being jealous of Liam’s past relationships. Or the idea that Liam might be _his_ because, well, they don’t discuss that.

They don’t have a name for it or even plan a future because – there isn’t one.)

Zayn strums up a put upon smile around the lip of his bottle, looking at Harry rather than Liam.

“Oi, now look at’cha,” Niall grins, his smile a tad uneven but still bright. “Gone and bagged ya a proper dad and stuff. A fit papa – “

Zayn winces a little and the burn of Liam’s cheek on his shoulder makes him want to laugh.

“Fair play t’ya, Payno,” Niall laughs, chugging down the rest of his beer. He drags the back of his hand over his mouth, leaning into Harry. “Much better than Andy.”

Zayn blinks for a moment, biting his lip. Liam groans next to him, hiding his face in his hands and Harry nearly tips out of his chair with a cackle.

“Andy-who?” Zayn asks, lifting an eyebrow.

“Don’t ask, don’t ask,” Liam pleads, half-choking on his giggles.

“An old mate of ours,” Harry smirks, lifting his brow like it’s all just dumb banter. “Back in Wolverhampton.”

“That fecker was a right mint time and also a bit of a douche,” Niall says, his smile going lazy and content.

“Oi,” Liam huffs, kicking Niall under the table. “He was me neighbor. Top lad. And a horrible first snog.”

Harry and Niall fall into each other laughing. Zayn feels that coil around his lungs tighten and, no, suddenly he doesn’t want to know a thing about Liam’s previous snogs or his first time shagging (girl or boy) or how many times he’s been in love before. He doesn’t want to know a bloody thing and he refuses to call that _jealousy_ , it’s just –

It’s calculated is what it is. There’s no attachment if he doesn’t have to compare himself to anyone else.

(If he doesn’t have to prove to Liam he’s better, stronger, braver than any of his other lovers.)

“I was young,” Liam argues, his brow crinkled, lips turned up into a grin. “Dodgy games of spin the bottle with you twats.”

Harry’s still giggling into Niall’s neck, maraschino cherry lips skimming over his tendons. Niall nicks Harry’s beer, downing it. “Poor choices, bro,” he sighs, half-laughs. “Almost as shite as that buzzcut you had.”

Liam squeaks, hiding his face behind his forearms. Harry tips out of his chair then, snorting, tripping all the way over to the hob to pull off the whistling kettle.

“Awful, awful choices, Leemo,” Niall repeats, slouching. “Y’ didn’t have the ears for it.”

Liam flips him off blindly and Zayn’s fingers keep brushing shapeless figures over Liam’s neck.

He clears his throat softly, licking at his lips when Liam’s eyes shift in his direction. He gives a thoughtless shrug, teeth pulling in his lower lip like the tide. “Always thought about cutting me own hair,” he says, low, dragging his spare hand through his inky, thick hair. It’s down, nearly half in his eyes. “Mates thought it’d be a horrible idea.”

Liam stares at him for a soft breath, looking a little in awe. Niall exhales a quiet _‘hmm’_ like he’s considering while Harry fixes the tea.

“You could,” Harry suggests, over his shoulder, shuffling to the stereo flooding the house with _‘bring me a higher love where’s the higher love I keep thinking of?_ ’ in an achy falsetto.

Niall nods sluggishly, sniffing. “Wouldn’t be terrible,” he remarks. He tilts his empty bottle at Liam. “Not like this one. Remember his feckin’ Bieber cut, Haz?”

Harry nearly drops the mugs, barking out a laugh and Liam buries most of his face in the crook of Zayn’s neck. The press of his nose to Zayn’s skin is warm. Zayn can make out the crook of Liam’s smile on his throat and, bloody hell, this feeling is lovely.

It’s an attachment and Zayn just can’t afford that right now.

 

##

 

He’s sat out back on the steps of the house, sneaking a cigarette an hour later. It’s the right side of chilly out and he’s flicking ash off his cigarette, the sky one big indigo ocean above his head when Niall stumbles outside, holding up a cigarette of his own with a dumb, goofy grin.

Niall flops down, nudging in close for warmth, nicking Zayn’s lighter for a spark. His first exhale is heavy, storm clouds of blue surrounding him, his pale skin glowing like a star from here. His soft hair is out of place from Harry’s fingers but he looks comfortably messy.

(The way Liam looks in the morning, after a shag, curled around a pillow with a sleepy smile.)

“Needed out?” Niall asks, chewing his lip.

Zayn nods slowly, pulling his knees up to curl his arms around them. He watches the grass under the landing strip of light the moon provides. He clears his throat on his shoulder, waiting for Niall to speak first.

“S’always been just us ‘round here, I s’ppose,” Niall mumbles, his strong grin lopsided. “Always gettin’ off to our own things t’ stay busy.”

Zayn exhales before taking a stiff drag, holding it in his throat until it heats up like the core of a star. He watches Niall lean back, one hand propped behind him to steady his weight.

“All I’ve ever had was the local,” Niall adds, his voice gone scratchy. He’s a slow smoker, savoring every inhale but it’s almost an extra buzz for him – the nicotine and the heavy night. “Just me and the pub. Harry and the bakery. Liam and his dad’s hardware shop. Fucking village lads.”

Zayn studies his chapped lips, the way Niall smiles around all of his words, even if they’re a bit somber. His lazy technique when he breathes in the smoke, amateurish coughs every other breath like it’s still new. This habit, this calm.

“But Payno’s always been too brilliant for his own good,” Niall says. “One of those dumb child prodigies, y’know? Fucking wizard with music. His mum had t’ drag him off to studies. He never got it.”

Niall exhales harshly, tilting back to look up at the sky. “He never got why we stuck it out ‘ere and made him go off to uni. Big, dumb feck.”

There’s something a little too fond about Niall’s smile that makes Zayn uncurl from around himself, stretching out his legs, dangling the cigarette between his lips to brush the hair from his face.

Niall half-turns to him, wriggling up an eyebrow. “He and your son get on well, then?”

Zayn sniffs and his lips loosen to a partial smile. He shrugs unenthusiastically (because this question feels huge and he’s not ready) before replying, “Reckon so.”

Niall gives him a short nod. His chuckle is visible breaths of blue smoke. He shoots Zayn a bit of a smug smile.

“Oughta be that way,” he mumbles, finally looking away from their soft staring contest. “Payno’s always wanted one of those big families y’see on the telly sitcoms.”

It’s a whole breath of clean air before Zayn remembers the cigarette he’s balancing between this fingers. His skin is crawling with the chill of the night but his blood pulses like tiny comets colliding. He feels wrung out and exhausted from it all and he just wants to stop thinking for a bit.

“Better get back in,” Niall suggests.

Zayn nods slowly, steadying his eyes on the banks of silver on the lawn from the moon. He’s not sure he’s ready, could go for one more cigarette and –

Niall’s pale fingers wrap loosely around Zayn’s bicep, squeezing into his skin. He ditches the ciggy in the lawn, tiny embers floating up into the atmosphere.

“Wasn’t out here to convince ye to give me best mate a chance or nothin’, bro,” he says, his voice still rasped from the nicotine. He pauses until Zayn lifts his chin, a wry smile smoothed over his mouth that Zayn refuses to feel skeptical about. “Was out here tryin’ to convince myself you couldn’t be as bloody chill and sick as Li says y’ are.”

Zayn flicks off his own cigarette, jerking his chin up. “Did you sort it out?”

Niall’s fingers tighten around Zayn’s arm for a moment before he laughs.

“Yeah, s’ppose I did then.”

He’s pushing up onto wobbly legs, stumbling just a little from all of the beers, saluting Zayn like a proper idiot. Zayn smiles into his shoulder. He eyes Niall shrugging haphazardly like he’s lost control of his limbs before he’s stumbling inside.

It takes Zayn a few breaths, letting this little parish and its quiet existence swirl around him, before he finds his own footing. From the back door, he watches Niall sprawled across Liam and Harry’s laps, their laughter mingling like the tide smacking over the rocks of the shore.

Three idiots burning away the night like this is all they’ve been missing.

Zayn smirks before Liam catches him. They share a grin and Liam waves him offer. A proper invitation into the fold.

(A place to belong and Zayn hasn’t had that since Bradford, if even then.)

 

##

 

The days in Wombourne shift by like a lazy surf on a hot day. It feels easy, all of the sun and the green everywhere and this quiet little town away from the city.

Zayn barely notices all of the sunsets and long afternoons, Harry coming by nearly every day for morning tea before dragging Zayn and Sameer around the village. He drives them for trip up into Wolverhampton in his rusted out red truck, where he shows off the old house Liam’s parents had when he was born.

He spends an afternoon watching Liam fix up things around the house, lazing around with him on the couch watching silly reruns on the telly. Chasing Sameer in Loki in the massive yard while Liam mows the grass down, shirtless with this steady stream of sweat slicking down his tan skin.

(Fuzzy chest hair and crooked grin and his jeans sinking low enough on his hips for Zayn to realize there’s nothing underneath.

Just skin and soft hair stretching beneath the lip of his jeans towards his –

 _Oh_. Bloody fuck.)

Everything is so bloody cheery and nothing like London. Even the shop owners smile each time that little bell above their door chimes, happy waves at every customer. He feels a tad out of place (in combat boots, ripped jeans, loose vests or graphic print shirts, dark hair scooped into a knot on his head) with all of the townies but –

No one stares at Sameer or comments on Zayn’s accent, his looks, the way Liam leads him around the streets with a lazy arm scooped around Zayn’s shoulders.

It’s just –

This place slowly starts to crawl around Zayn’s bones. The edge of the city starts to seep out of his system. He feels relaxed. Incredibly calm and lightweight. Out of place but feeling like he belongs.

It’s confusing is what it is so Zayn stops mulling over it for as long as possible.

They’re all gathered around the den on a cozy evening and Niall’s been hollering about a _Sunday Roast_ for ages so Harry indulges him by cooking in that silly apron. Niall picks up a sick bottle of wine from the next town over while Liam lets Sameer help him hang all of the old Christmas lights around, the room winking gold and white like a scene from a film.

“I’m tellin’ ya, these two gits were absolute nerds growing up,” Niall grins around a mouthful of food, pointing his fork back and forth between Harry and Liam. “This one, always acting like our dad, going on about Batman all the time. And then Haz, always falling about with his Polaroid – “

“It was a Canon my mum bought off one of her hipster friends,” Harry corrects, sitting up taller with a smug smile.

“Whatever,” Niall scoffs. “Complete dickheads. I was t’ only thing saving this friendship.”

Zayn smiles cheekily while Harry and Liam trade offended looks.

Niall is sprawled in an old armchair, one of those rocking recliners, Harry perched on the arm with his legs stretched over Niall’s lap. Liam’s taken to squeezing Sameer between him and Zayn on the sofa, Loki shuffling back and forth through the room with a wagging tail. The low lights and even softer music (Niall flipping through old Eagles tunes for awhile before Harry begs off Don Henley in favor of _‘everybody’s dancing in the moonlight’_ to compliment the atmosphere) makes everything feel relaxed.

Chilled. The way Zayn wishes it would always be.

Harry’s talking in that honey-toned voice about all the pictures he’s taken recently (the fields and spring flowers and even old, abandoned shops in other towns) and the wine is making Zayn feel, well, a bit content. Niall’s nodding at all of Harry’s words like one of those amused spouses who’s heard these stories a dozen times before –

(and never grows tired of hearing the person he’s in love with speak or breathe or just _exist_ )

Out of the corner of his eye, Zayn can see Liam smiling crookedly at Sameer, head tilted to admire him.

 _‘Are you almost done?’_ Liam signs when Sameer looks up at him.

Sameer gives a small shrug. _‘Almost,’_ he signs back.

 _‘Do you want to play with Loki before bed?’_ Liam asks, his hand movements steadily becoming more fluent, the shake behind his nervous fingers fading.

 _‘Can I stay here?’_ Sameer signs in return, biting down on his lip. _‘With you and baba.’_

There’s this brilliant cherry burn to Liam’s cheeks when he grins. It’s meant to be private, like he’s hiding, but Zayn catches it. This blooming and honest smile like Liam’s overwhelmed.

 _‘Okay,’_ Liam signs, quickly, his hand starting to tremble again.

(but, this time, it’s not from the uncertainty of learning how to sign properly)

Zayn hides his mouth behind his knuckles, elbow propped on a knee to steady his chin. He watches Liam ruffle a hand into Sameer’s hair, all of those silly fairy lights glowing around Liam’s stupid grin. Zayn feels his heart swelling a little too massively behind his ribs and chalks up the fond smile he’s hiding behind his knuckles to the wine.

“Oi, that bugger is absolutely smitten,” Niall teases, drawn back in the armchair with Harry half in his lap now. “Look at’cha Payno.”

Harry smiles into his wine glass, raising his eyebrows when Liam earnestly ignores them.

“Piss off, lovebirds,” he huffs, keeping his eyes low on Sameer.

“Learning sign language. Bonding like a proud papa,” Niall cackles.

“Babe,” Harry sighs like he’s annoyed but his smile, clumsy and affectionate, drowns out the tone of his voice. “Shut it.”

Niall keeps laughing, burying the noise in the crook of Harry’s elbow but Liam doesn’t stir or kick out at them. He keeps a hand in Sameer’s hair, smiling down into his lap, his foot keeping time with the music. It makes Zayn –

Nervy, he thinks. Or unsure.

He eases a hand over the nape of Sameer’s neck and, unconsciously, their hands meet somewhere in the middle. They don’t flinch or pull away. Just slow, awkward movements until Liam tangles their fingers together on the back of Sameer’s head.

“It’s weird,” Liam says, later, watching Harry and Niall fight playfully while doing the dishes.

They’re in the archway to the kitchen, breathing slowly. He’s curled around Zayn from behind, his chest to Zayn’s spine, arms crisscrossed against Zayn’s chest. His chin is hooked over Zayn’s shoulder while Niall and Harry splash each other, elbows-deep in soapy suds, their hips knocking as Niall washes and Harry uses a flannel to dry them.

Zayn hums softly, cocking an eyebrow up out of view.

Liam gives a carefree shrug. “Always feels a bit off watching me best mates like this,” he whispers, even though Harry and Niall are so bloody into each other that they haven’t even noticed them. “In _love_ , I guess. Or whatever they are.”

Zayn snorts. “It’s love. Not hard to tell, Payno.”

Liam scoffs, dragging his stubble along Zayn’s cheek in retaliation. “Its mad love,” he snickers. “But I like it, I s’ppose? It’s weird.”

“You’re weird,” Zayn smiles. Absently, he leans back into the safety of Liam’s chest, reflexively synchronizing his breaths with Liam’s.

Harry creates a mountain of foam on top of Niall’s already soft hair and Niall starts to give Harry a frothy beard like Santa Claus. Zayn swears they’re both idiots. Absolute children. Still, they giggle at each other, trading off daft kisses while nearly cracking the wine glasses with their slippery fingers.

“Dunno,” Liam hums, digging his chin into Zayn’s shoulder. “It’s just, like – when you’re growing up, you sort of want to fall in love like that? Before you realize how awful love is, really, you want to find someone who makes you laugh. Makes you feel all weird and stuff.”

Zayn swallows while Liam’s fingers drum out the insanely rapid pulse of Zayn’s heart over his chest.

“It’s _cozy_ ,” Liam says like it’s the word he was searching for all along. “They’re a proper love story.”

Quieter, like Liam means for all of the words to fall between the cracks in the hardwood, he mumbles, “I’ve always wanted that. Being in love like my parents. Like my feckin’ best mates are.”

It’s unintentional, the way Zayn holds his breath until it hurts. Until Liam’s fingers draw invisible infinites over his sternum. He’s drowning in deep waters. But it feels like _clarity_ and tastes like _confusion_.

He presses into all of Liam’s touches (the hands on his belly and the chest along his spine and the chin on his shoulder) and keeps watching Harry and Niall makes a mess of the kitchen.

He keeps watching a love story he doesn’t think he ever wanted.

( _not yet_.)

 

##

 

(Liam doesn’t sleep in London.

He’s always moving, shifting about in bed, crawling away to make a fresh cup of tea at half three in the morning, while the city sleeps.

Zayn finds him in the bathroom, or the kitchen, sometimes on the sofa, always looking knackered. Always smiling when his heavy eyes meet Zayn’s across the room. Tugging Zayn in for a cuddle, a quick snog – maybe just to finger Zayn off while giving him an achingly slow wank until Zayn absolute shivers afterwards from the stimulation.

But it’s all a bit of a distraction because – Liam never really sleeps in London.

In Wombourne, in an old room that smells of dust and lavender, Liam curls around Zayn for hours.

He snores and mumbles in his sleep and never pulls away because his nerves won’t slow down or because he’s feeling antsy. Some nights, he buries his face in Zayn’s chest, their legs tangled under the sheets, and doesn’t stir until the sun is beating down on them late into the morning.

Liam tugs Sameer into bed with them when he’s up too early, huffing a quick _‘no, no, stay right here the both of you ‘cause I don’t wanna move and you should just sleep’_ until the three of them turn lazy again.

Sleeping away the morning, tucked under the sheets, Loki at the foot of the bed.

Here, in this small village where everything feels clean and new and easy. Here, in this snug, large bed with Zayn and Sameer surrounding him –

Liam sleeps.)

 

##

 

There’s a massive FIFA 15 tournament waging a war on the sofa late into the evening on a cloudy Tuesday.

The scent of afternoon rain is still imprinted through most of the house, tangy and metallic and green, while Niall and Liam bicker fondly over who is better (Niall is rallying for his Chelsea club while Liam is very adamant about Manchester City) while on the sofa. Their elbows knock every few plays, rowdy lads shouting at each other over Foster the People in the background, crowing when they score.

It’s _intense_ – the way their eyebrows crinkle, their tongues hanging out the sides of their mouths while they focus.

Sameer is sat between Liam’s legs, strong arms bracketing Sameer’s small frame, Liam’s chin resting on the top of Sameer’s head. Loki is caught under one of Niall’s arms, kipping in the madness, and Liam leans over every few plays to mumble _‘traitor’_ vindictively at him like the house is divided.

(Which, well, it might be a bit because Harry grins every time Niall outwits Liam on a play and Sameer chews at his lower lip anxiously when Liam lines a player up for a penalty kick)

But Zayn stays quiet, absently, balled in a chair at the table with Harry.

Their honeyed tea overwhelms the stale spice of the rain but Zayn barely touches it. He’s leaning a little in his chair, sketchpad balanced unevenly on his knees. He’s using a felt tip pen this time, gnawing a corner of his lower lip while trying to capture the right angles.

He’s drawing Liam curled around Sameer, the soft sweep of Sameer’s face in profile. Ink gets all over his hands and he’s leaving fingerprints along the bottom of the page but he doesn’t mind.

(He won’t hang this up or frame it or anything. It’s just – it’s only for him. Another page he’ll rip out and tuck in a drawer back home.)

(Back in London, actually.)

The music switches to Madeon as Harry clears his throat, Zayn looking up at his amusedly affectionate smile. Zayn blinks back at him, confused.

Harry sips loudly at his tea, smug grin on his lips when he lowers the cup. “Quite the pair, yeah?” he says, his voice deep and maddeningly slow like always.

Zayn sniffs, tilting his head to look over to the couch. “Yeah,” he shrugs carelessly. “Best mates, course.”

He ignores Harry’s silly snigger for a moment. “Not _them_ ,” Harry counters, stretching his foot to nudge at Zayn’s calf. “I was talking about – “

Zayn knows already. He was, ineffectively, avoiding that. Except, it’s all he’s been thinking about.

This natural latch-and-key bond Sameer and Liam have now. The way Sameer crawls into the bed, too early in the morning for Zayn’s liking, shifting about until Liam drags him down into a tight snuggle. Snoring in unison until Zayn needs a bloody cigarette and a morning cuppa.

Liam always looking about when they’re out in town, searching for Sameer. Making sure he stays close. Pointing out all of the sights he wants Sameer to take in. Running about that massive backyard together for a few hours, stumbling in the grass like a pair of young coyotes and tossing things for Loki to chase after.

Crowding either side of Zayn to watch a film. For a quick kip before dinner, lounging lazily on the sofa, the three of them twisted around each other. Synchronized hands tickling up Zayn’s ribs until he nearly falls to the floor with contagious laughter.

(It sort of sticks out now, even without Zayn thinking about it – which he _does_. A lot. Too much.)

Niall whoops victoriously from the couch, even though he’s still down by two goals.

“Cheater,” Liam mumbles, drifting his smile into Sameer’s hair.

“Y’ can’t crush Hazard, you feck,” Niall laughs. “You’re shite at taking me on, Payno.”

Liam rolls his eyes, digging an elbow into Niall’s side. “You were bricking it when I had Agüero on the pitch, mate,” he argues, their shoulders brushing as they start the match back up.

Niall scoffs before smirking. “Whatever. Loser gets beers and snacks. Got me right starved, mate, kicking your arse all over the place.”

Liam snorts but his brow furrows again and he looks determined. Zayn, carefully, follows the lines of his face and the set of his mouth with slow strokes of his pen across the paper.

“You know,” Harry drags out, wiggling bare toes against Zayn’s calf this time, “you’d fit in brilliantly around here, dude. I can see it. Maybe tearing down one of the bedrooms and turning it into an art studio?”

Zayn keeps his eyes lowered but –

He thinks about it, for a moment. He doesn’t consider – Harry’s just being polite. Or simply daft. Zayn is ripped jeans or casual suits, hair knotted on his head, Doc Martens and cut up vintage band shirts. He likes the Tube and the noise of traffic from his flat’s windows. Imported tea needing loads of sugar for flavor.

He’s not – he’s not like Harry. Or Niall. Not with loose plaid shirts or skinnies or casual chats at a bar. Not a quiet countryside or beat up roads leading to nowhere. Bed hair and fondly smiling at everything.

This is – well, it’s _Liam_. Zayn is a bit like Louis and nothing like Liam.

(nothing at all.)

“Dunno,” he mumbles, shrugging. He keeps his eyes down, trying to find the perfect lines to make Sameer look softer. “This place makes me feel – “

“Different?” Harry offers, smiling.

Zayn slides his lips sideways for a grin because – yeah. Different tastes perfect.

Harry sighs, unfolding himself from his own chair, stumbling a little on his feet. He pads up to Zayn, stealing away the sketchpad, curling his spare hand around Zayn’s wrist.

“C’mon then,” he huffs, a lazy smile licked red like a cherry ice lolly.

Zayn instinctively wants to pull away, grab his sketchpad, continue on. But Harry is so gentle and nothing like Louis Tomlinson. He’s the sort of mate Zayn doesn’t think would understand him.

(but he thinks, out of everyone in this shit-for-nothing village, Harry comprehends him the best)

“Where?” Zayn whines softly.

“S’time to be different,” Harry says, waggling his eyebrows. He looks manic and bloody mental but Zayn groans and fumbles to his feet.

He arches an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

Harry shoots him a smug grin over his shoulders. “Gonna help you look less like a London boy, man.”

Zayn’s not quite sure what that means or if he even wants to inquire so he lets Harry drag him all the way to the loo, shoved down onto the closed toilet lid while Harry rummages through all of the random drawers for something. He bites at his thumbnail, anxious, the stale light above the mirror making the tiny space gold and pale before Harry yanks out a pair of scissors and Liam’s edgy clippers. The loud hum when Harry cuts them on startles Zayn.

“Ready?”

Zayn is absolutely certain, for all intents and purposes, he hasn’t been ready since Liam stepped out onto the pavement a few months ago with a pink smile and startling eyes.

(So he shrugs casually and tries not to flinch when the scissors lop off a huge chunk of dark hair before he can blink again.)

 

##

 

He brushes his palm over his head repeatedly, the tickling prickles under his fingers still new even though it’s been an entire day. They’re sharp and fuzzy at once when he applies pressure. He feels every stir or breeze like all of his nerve endings are hyperaware. His hand keeps lifting to brush hair out of his eye even though there’s none there. Just an inch of hair now.

He hasn’t had a buzzcut since he was barely a teenager and it’s all still new.

But Zayn thinks, with a goofy grin, he _likes_ it.

It feels awkward and it makes him feel loose. Nothing like that London lad with a five year old and a life he keeps mucking up.

Zayn is leaning in the doorway of _their_ (because it doesn’t feel as much like _Liam’s_ anymore with Zayn’s shirt on a bedpost and his sketchbooks on the dresser, his dirty socks balled up in a corner) bedroom, still distractedly feeling the buzzed hair under his fingertips while Sameer sleeps tucked under one of Liam’s arms.

His dry, chapped lips are open, half of his body stretched over Liam’s side. There’s smears of watercolors all up his arms, a smudge on the tip of his nose. Matching handprints are all over the walls, neon colors faded silver at night. Sameer’s hands right next to Liam’s in every color across the empty walls and it makes the room look so much like a _home_ that Zayn –

He sucks in a sharp breath and ignores the throb starting at the center of his chest.

(This isn’t London. Or Bradford. It’s all Liam’s but now there’s little mementos that make it just as much Zayn’s and Sameer’s too.)

He’s so distracted by Sameer’s tiny hand fisting Liam’s shirt, blotting paint over the cotton, it feels so sudden when Liam is smiling up at him. He’s half-lying on the bed, his spine sitting crookedly against the headboard. He gives a small wave from the bed and Zayn snorts quietly.

Sameer is asleep, hollow breaths from his lips, Loki nodding off happily at the foot of the bed.

Zayn refuses to move from the doorway, watching them. Staring at Liam’s heavy eyes, the wrinkle of a smile he’s wearing, blemishes of paint across his tanned arms.

“Coming in?” Liam asks, tilting his head.

Zayn gnaws at his lip before shaking his head. “Not yet,” he mumbles.

Pale moonlight trickles through the curtains, looking a Persian blue, slicing over their bodies. Zayn wants to sketch it – or paint it next to all of the handprints on the wall.

Liam nods and it takes a few breaths before he’s cautiously untangling Sameer from around him, tucking him under the heavy duvet. The one that smells like all three of them now – orangey ginger and Liam’s cologne and vanilla shampoo.

He pads over, bare feet barely thumping over the floor, multicolored fingers splaying over Zayn’s hips when he’s close. He instantly knocks Zayn’s hand away from his hair, his scolding look more amusing than heated. Liam seems even more content right here, in the doorway, leaning his forehead on Zayn’s. There’s not enough light to make Liam’s eyes look revolutionary but they’re caramel and bright.

Zayn doesn’t lose a breath over them but he likes their softness.

(and a bit more, he thinks)

“Alright?” Liam wonders.

“Can’t sleep,” Zayn teases quietly, lips twisting crookedly into a half-smile.

Liam rolls his eyes but grins back. His fingers tighten on Zayn’s hips, thumbs sweeping back and forth. “C’mere,” he whispers, fingers curling into belt loops. He gives a small tug before Zayn, helplessly, laughs and follows him down the dark hallway.

They stumble all the way into the minty grass in the huge yard, under a massive oak tree that stretches high into the ozone. Zayn thinks of that one character from _Guardians of the Galaxy_ as he studies the definition in the bark, Liam casually twisting their fingers together while pointing up to the stars. They sit like a pile of glitter in an indigo sea, large chunks of silver that Zayn can’t really look away from –

(Except his eyes keep drifting to Liam until he’s oblivious of everything else – )

“They’re so much closer out here,” Liam says, his voice turning soft and happy.

Honestly, they are. Bright stranded ships in the sea and he thinks if he stretches his fingers far enough, he can touch them. In a clear, dark sky, bits of shiny dust. There’s a roar of crickets all around them and the wind whistles like a siren from here. He’s taken by it all and he’s so comfortable in the grass, his spine pressed to the trunk of the tree, Liam next to him.

In a place that feels so _theirs_.

( _nothing like London, nothing like London, nothing like London_ – )

He’s thinking of a tune Harry kept humming earlier, in his beat-up truck, a slow drive through empty streets. It’s stuck in his head, looped and repeated. His long fingers tighten around Liam’s while his knuckles keep time with the _‘you sprinkle stardust on my pillowcase it’s like a moonbeam brushed across my face’_ in his head.

The crickets are a noisy symphony and Liam half-turns to grin at him in the shadows.

Zayn blinks back, dragging his teeth along his lip. “Sort of wish Sammy could,” he swallows around his next word, flinching, “hear all of this. Just – dunno. It’s different from London, ‘s all. Calmer or summat.”

Liam leans into the tree and their fingers never stop moving – ghosts on a wave of skin. Zayn hums, in his mind, a gentle _‘nights are good and that’s the way it should be’_ before Liam mutters, “He doesn’t need to.”

He’s smiling, big and dopey, a flutter of eyelashes that keep Zayn from pouting.

(It’s not that they talk about this often – Sameer’s loss of hearing. The implants. Liam’s soft will to prevent it all because he loves –

Liam loves, loves, loves – _shit_.)

“He can feel it all,” he adds, tipping his head back to stare at the scrambled gathering of stars. “He can feel it, babe.”

Zayn exhales quietly. Liam’s fingers tighten and release around his. His will is spoken so gently through a touch. Zayn tips his temple onto Liam’s shoulder.

(all he can hear is Liam’s breaths and _‘did you see that shooting star tonight? Were you dazzled by the same constellation?’_ in the background)

“Sometimes,” Liam adds, brushing the words to Zayn’s forehead, “I wish he could hear how loud my heart gets when I’m around you, though.”

Zayn snorts but he stays still. Except his fingers, still moving and playing out _‘did you and Jupiter conspire to get me?’_ to accompany the wind.

“You’re mental, man,” he laughs, the noise scratching up his throat.

Liam shrugs casually. His spare hand reaches awkwardly to drag his palm over Zayn’s buzzcut. Fingers to his scalp, scratching a lazy rhythm.

This quiet, quiet village going dim under a massive oak tree in Liam’s backyard.

(But it feels so theirs that Zayn wants to run away. Protect himself, Sameer too.)

He stays, yawning, his breaths evening out with Liam’s under that blanket of dark and pulverized glitter.

Reluctantly, he reckons this as close to _‘home’_ as he’ll be for a long, long time.

 

##

 

Zayn loves the musky scent of the pub at night. That hang of old wood and shoddy wine. Greasy chips, stale cigarettes, spilled beer and sticky rum.

The crowd is noisy, some half-drunk collection of old classmates shouting over an Arsenal game on the telly, laughter ringing like an out of tune choir. They’re a rowdy bunch, the sort of people Zayn thinks Liam loved and hated all at once. They pound out shots of fireball whiskey for every missed goal and hum a riot to all of the tunes on the jukebox (even if they don’t know any of the words) like they’re still teenagers rebelling against an army of adults.

Niall grins from behind the bar, serving out glass after glass. Harry’s hung up on the pool table, taking down challengers with a cheeky grin. He’s winking at Zayn after he sinks every shot, pleading _‘rookie luck’_ each and every time. It’s a little shameless but Niall loves it, coercing another drunken bloke to stumble over and smack a tenner on the green felt.

A bunch of Jacks trying to knock a giant off the beanstalk.

Liam has Sameer hiked up on his hip, teaching him Pac-Man on some old arcade version that’s all faded bleeps and poor graphics. But Liam smiles dopily like a child on the eve of Christmas or summat. Crinkles and laughter lines and his big hand covering Sameer’s tiny ones on the joystick.

It’s the sort of scene Zayn never imagined himself surrounded by –

But he’s wearing one of Liam’s tartan shirts, unbuttoned, the soft material loose around his shoulders and arms. There’s a black vest underneath, chunky boots propped on an empty stool. A half-finished Guinness (Niall’s choice, of course) in a glass next to him and he can sniff out the aroma of his last Marlboro under the scent of Liam’s cologne on the shirt.

“Crazy crowd,” Niall grins, leaning on the bar. “Mad bunch of lads and birds.”

Zayn smirks, watching it all unfold. “Think they’ve had one too many?”

“Nah,” Niall cackles, cleaning out another glass. “Just gettin’ started, this bunch. Tap’ll be dry by the time they finish. They always get like t’is when _he_ comes back.”

Niall waves his towel at Liam, in the corner still rocking the old video game with the tip of his tongue between his teeth.

Zayn smiles into his glass before making a face at the flavor. “This is shite.”

“Oi!” Niall cheers with one of those belly-aching laughs that echoes in places like this. “You’re a right townie now, Malik. Drink up! Have you arse-naked by the end of this – “

Zayn shoots him a disappointed look that strums out another wailing laugh from Niall. “Horrible, bro,” Zayn smiles, his voice dry.

Niall snaps the end of his towel at Zayn before shuffling off to another customer, some pretty girl with freckles and dark hair who keeps giving Liam this look like she wants to –

“Don’t mind her,” Harry grins, snatching the glass from between Zayn’s fingers. He finishes the stout in one swallow, dragging his knuckles over his mouth.

 _Fucking Niall and his awful influences_ , Zayn thinks.

“Let Niall tell it, Liam was mad over her for years back in Wolverhampton,” Harry declares, sighing. “Honestly, he was a bit sick over her but she shot him down. Twenty-two times? Fucking mistake. She’s been a bit flirty since he got a job off in London.”

Zayn bites the edge of his lip. There’s this unnecessary chant of _‘not jealous, not jealous’_ in his head even though he _is_. Definitely. He wants to stride over to her, smile gently, and show off all the love bites Liam’s lips have tattooed over his collarbones but –

Instead, he sits a little taller and squints at her. One-fifth challenging, the rest just innocent _‘I’m shagging him now’_ eyelash flutters.

(Because he swears Liam is still a bit of a fling and he won’t have him long enough to know the difference.

Liam isn’t staying in England. And Zayn has accepted it.)

(Or, well, he tells himself that repeatedly until he’s sick of it all.)

“Leeymo!” Andy, tall, broad, and shamelessly pissed off too many shots, shouts from a corner of the pub. “Give us a tune!”

“Payno! Music boy, c’mon.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jesy, with her dark lipstick and sauntering hips, agrees. “C’mon now. Can’t get out that lucky, mate. Give us a proper melody.”

“Remember how nerdy he was? Parents always shoving him in school concerts and down here at the local?”

“Fucking Mozart, he was. Fairly good, though.”

Liam flinches in the corner, rubbing his chin to the top of Sameer’s head. He keeps his eyes low, lips twitching into a small frown. A disappointed one.

“Oi, fuck off,” Niall barks at the table of dizzy lads, all making faces at Liam like they haven’t outgrown their need to bully him. “Shove off, you dickheads. That’s me bro you’re chatting ‘bout. Drink yer feckin’ pussy drinks and shut it, you bunch of cunts.”

They all go quiet, mumbling, eyes downcast on their empty shots glasses for a moment. Niall’s a cherry-red behind the bar, eyebrows drawn together, pale fingers dragging roughly through his hair.

Harry, leaning over the pool table with one of Niall’s snapback sat crooked over his curls, watches him for a beat before his lips curl up into a careful smile. He shakes his head, huffing. “What a babe,” he snickers, exhaling softly when Niall darts his eyes at him. “Can’t believe I shag about with such a legend.”

There’s a tight draw of laughter all around and Niall, the fucking romantic, blushes like a schoolboy before flipping Harry off.

“Can’t stop braggin’ ‘bout me dick, c’n ya?” he laughs.

Harry shrugs, pocketing another tenner, waving off another fallen challenger. He shifts until he’s perched on the wood of the pool table, feet dangling. He jerks his head towards an old piano in another corner of the pub.

It’s dull wood, keys dusted in cigarette ash, a cushioned seat stitched in cheap velvet. It looks untouched, not used for too long. Worn down and yet still so warming.

“C’mon Payno,” Harry insists, his voice gone raspy, drawing Liam’s attention. “Remember when your mum and dad would crowd around that thing. A right show, they were. Sneaking us in.”

“Paul sneaking us Boddington’s from behind the bar when no one was looking,” Niall grins.

Liam ducks his head but his lips spare a big smile, cheeks turning just a hint of pink.

“Oh, the times,” Harry giggles, fisting hair behind his ears. “Remember the duets?”

“Your dad was terrible,” Andy laughs.

“Always wanted to do some Queen tune,” Harry adds.

Niall smirks lazily, pouring off another Guinness, shoving it at Zayn. “And your mum always wanted – “

“Some Joni Mitchell song,” Liam says, under his breath, lowering Sameer to the ground. He takes Sameer’s hand (thick fingers curling around a tiny palm) to lead him over to the piano.

Sameer climbs up into Liam’s lap while he tunes up. Niall nods at Michael when he clicks off the jukebox and the telly is muted, nothing but the murmur of useless banter in the crowd before Liam finds the notes he’s looking for.

A hush seeps through the pub, just a few feet tapping out the melody on the hardwood. Liam grins down into Sameer’s thick hair, lifting his mouth just enough to croon _‘I’m gonna pick up the pieces and build a Lego house if things go wrong we can knock it down’_ while nodding his head.

“Fucking hell,” Andy yelps, raising his beer at Liam.

Zayn relaxes on his stool, the edge of the bar in his spine, lips loose around the mouth of his glass.

He feels a little defenseless watching Liam like this – in the heart of something cozy. He’s bloody glowing under the pale bar lights. His mouth is half in Sameer’s hair but his voice is strong. All of the muscles in his forearm pulse out and his thick fingers find each key without looking.

“Asshole,” Niall mumbles, flopping down next to Zayn. “Knows I nut over Sheeran, man. Bloody asshole.”

Zayn grins, even after the shock of dark ale on his tongue, tilting his head to watch.

Liam’s plump lips curl around a _‘my three words have two meanings but there’s one thing on my mind’_ while he hammers out the melody.

He twists on the piano bench, smirking at all the catcalls, wolf whistles. He has to stretch for a proper view but there’s something bright in his eyes when he finally finds Zayn. Something hitches softly in Zayn’s next breath. He flushes at Liam’s wide smile, downing another swallow of stout.

Niall elbows him roughly. “Thinking he’s a bit over the moon about you, Zayner.”

Zayn swallows, hard. It’s embarrassing how simple it is for his mouth to be tricked into something sincere. He’s not daft on it all – the crinkles around Liam’s eyes or the way _he sings at Zayn_ or just how soppy all of this is.

It’s a fucking Nicholas Sparks novel and Zayn prefers the dark, twisted Poe version of it all.

Still, he holds his breath on the _‘I’m out of touch I’m out of love I’ll pick you up when you’re getting down’_ and exhales when the crowd, brilliantly out of tune, responds with a loud _‘and out of all these things I’ve done I think I love you better now’_ that has Liam giggling wildly.

“Quit it,” he smiles, faltering on a few notes. But he looks in love with all.

Truthfully, Zayn’s a little in love with the way Sameer tries to cover Liam’s hands with his own smaller ones. He’s feeling out each key, palming at the piano for the vibrations it creates.

(It reminds Zayn of another night in a big city he’s certain he doesn’t miss.)

The pub lights up with a dozen different voices trying to blend together but all Zayn can hear is _‘now I’ll surrender up my heart and swap it for yours’_ in Liam’s easy falsetto.

Zayn settles into the scent of old wood and cigarettes. The burnt flavor of Guinness. Niall’s aftershave and Harry’s cotton candy cologne when he cuddles in. The growl of the crowd, drunken singing. The wobble in Liam’s voice whenever he laughs his way through another lyric.

(the incessant pound of his heart in his ears)

It’s too much but he doesn’t think about leaving. Not even for a second.

 

##

 

The rain is pounding out a steady rhythm on the roof, through the tree limbs, echoing off the leaves. The thunder thumps like the kick back of a drum in the distance. Fuzzy bird chirps mingle with the noises and everything outside is a haze of bluish grey and sharp green.

Sameer is propped in the bay window, arms folded over the sill, his chin pressed onto his knuckles. He keeps blinking at all of the water sliding down the window, Loki sat next to him. Their breaths move in unison, something like those Jaeger pilots in _Pacific Rim_. They stay motionless together, idly watching the afternoon turn dark.

Zayn cuddles to himself on the sofa, knees drawn to his chest. He’s wearing an oversized jumper with the sleeves tugged over his knuckles and a pair of Liam’s loose athletic shorts. His socks are tugged up to his shins and he feels warm despite the cold draft from the rain.

He snuggles into his jumper and sighs into a sleeve.

(and all he thinks is _‘Liam fits around me like a – ‘_ until he doesn’t want to think anymore)

There’s something dense and sad about studying Sameer like this. The way he presses his palm to the window to feel it shake with thunder. Fragile eyes watching every slice of rain trickle down. The flash of lightning that startles Loki but Sameer barely moves.

He just stares at it all.

“Hey,” Liam whispers, snuggling down onto the worn out cushions. He rests a steaming cup of tea on the coffee table, kicking his feet up.

Zayn smiles and thinks of Caroline for a brief second. He wants to scold Liam but, instead, he inclines into the arm Liam drapes over his shoulders.

“He likes the rain much, yeah?” Liam says, his voice a bit teasing.

Zayn nods slowly. He can’t quite slow the stutter of his heart watching Sameer.

“Been thinking,” Zayn mumbles, lower lip between his teeth, words shoved to the roof of his mouth. “Still wanna try and – I’ve been saving up. A few pounds here and there. I think I wanna, like. Am I a little crazy ‘cause I still wanna get him those implants?”

Liam’s quiet next to him and Zayn doesn’t want to twist around just in case he’s frowning poorly at Zayn. Or scowling. Or, well, he doesn’t want to feel _judged_.

(Not by Liam, at least.)

“I’m just – “

Liam laughs gently and snuffles his nose to the thick material of Zayn’s jumper.

“He’s your son,” Liam says, his breath warm and minty from the gum he’s been chewing all morning. “Course you want to be a good dad. You want to help him. It’s not bad.”

“But it’s,” Zayn pauses. He finally drags his eyes away from Sameer. “It’s not like he’s _broken_ , yeah? I don’t want you to think – “

“Doesn’t matter,” Liam insists and Zayn can feel the stroke of Liam’s thumb through his jumper. “A good dad wants to protect his son. Alright?”

Zayn huffs softly but he jerks his head like a nod. He shuts his eyes when Liam presses a wet kiss to his cheek and tries to shove down this guilty feeling.

The one that’s soaking through his bones, eating at the marrow, shredding every bit of cartilage until he’s nothing.

“Stop thinking,” Liam demands in this silly voice meant to make Zayn sputter.

He coughs out a put upon laugh instead and Liam pinches him through his jumper.

“Dick,” Zayn smiles.

“Shut it,” Liam says, teeth gnawing at Zayn’s shoulder. “And _c’mon_.”

Zayn blinks his eyes open and is barely registering what Liam wants before he’s being hauled to his feet, Liam’s laughter louder than the ache of thunder. Their fingers tangle naturally and Liam leads him off the sofa, all the way to the window to scoop up Sameer one-handed while pathetically whistling for Loki to follow.

It’s a jumbled stumble to the front door and Liam’s hands are full so Sameer anxiously reaches out to twist the knob. The backdraft of mist from the rain coats their faces and Zayn hesitates for a long moment before Liam yanks them outside.

It’s a proper storm with thick sheets of rain blocking their vision and the sky a newspaper grey. Thunder shakes the tree limbs, the grass a wasteland of giant puddles. They’re soaked in seconds and Zayn thinks Liam is absolutely mad. A fucking maniac.

But Liam runs off into the blitzkrieg of rain like a kid diving headfirst into a summer swimming pool. Sameer is not far behind, laughing happily, spinning in dizzy circles under the cover of rain. Loki yelps, chasing Sameer around, scampering through puddles.

It’s all crazy and Zayn stands in the middle of a waterfall with his hands on his hips.

“C’mon, babe,” Liam beckons halfway across the yard, waving him over.

Sameer slides in the grass, splashing into a puddle, drenched in mud and slick raindrops. The crickets hum under the thunder and Zayn –

He takes a deep breath because he never really learned how to swim. Or dive. But he knows how to run ( _awkwardly_ ) and he sprints off into the storm.

He runs until his lungs give out and his thoughts dim and his vision goes dizzy.

He’s doubled over, giggling, spitting out metallic rain with a grin. His hand runs over his face, barely clearing off droplets before it’s soaked again. He doesn’t mind. He blinks up at Liam standing over him and, _bloody fuck_ , he doesn’t mind at all.

“Nice?” Liam wonders, a cold hand finding the nape of Zayn’s neck.

Zayn presses back into the touch and nods. “It’s fucking wet, Leeyum.”

Liam snorts, thumbing the sharp hair at the tail of Zayn’s skull. “Taking the piss, are ya?”

Zayn shrugs, even though his jumper is incredibly heavy now that it’s soaked. He stands up and Sameer, blinded by the rain and crinkled laughter lines, smacks into his leg while running from Loki. Tiny arms wrap around Zayn’s thigh and he buries his laugh in Zayn’s shorts when Loki finally catches up.

“Stop thinking,” Liam repeats, leaning in, brushing a wet kiss to Zayn’s lips.

It tastes like copper and coffee and Zayn drags his mouth with Liam’s for a second. Just long enough to memorize the taste and the sounds of Liam’s breaths against the echo of rain.

“Stop thinking.”

Zayn sighs over Liam’s mouth, combing fingers through Sameer’s sopping hair. It curls even more when it’s wet like this and it reminds Zayn of those pictures he snuck a view of in Liam’s old bedroom.

(Seventeen with massive curls and dimples and shirts buttoned all the way up to his throat, almost hiding his birthmark.)

“Ready to go?” Liam asks, a bit unexpectedly as he draws off Zayn’s lips.

Zayn blinks away the thick drops hanging off his eyelashes, tilting his head. He shoots Liam a curious look and misses the tangle of Liam’s fingers around his own.

He doesn’t have time to process ( _think, think, think_ ) it all through before Liam barks out a laugh, stumbling off on the slick grass into a slow jog, dragging Zayn behind him. Zayn catches on quickly, sliding with Liam through the yard. They crash into the grass, a giant waterslide in the middle of nowhere.

Mud sticks to their clothes, rain on their tongues as they laugh. There’s hair in Sameer’s eyes, Loki’s fur spotted brown and dirty. They roll around and nearly drown in the waves of heavier rain, sputtering out screams and giggles that ring just as loud as the thunder.

They fuck off in the yard until they’re shivering, too cold from the draft and their slick skin. Lying under the rain like they’re star-gazing, Liam’s fingers vined around Zayn’s with Sameer’s head on Liam’s chest.

In the middle of a tempest, Zayn smiles and refuses to move.

 

##

 

Zayn lets Sameer soak away all of the mud in a foamy bath while Liam makes three cups of warm milk, the afternoon ticking by while the rain drowns the quiet of Wombourne away. He settles Sameer into his bed, under the duvet, shooing Loki’s dirty paws off the linen. Liam huffs the steam off the milk before letting Sameer down his cuppa with a toothy grin.

He’s leaning in the doorway while Zayn presses a tender kiss to Sameer’s forehead.

 _‘Sleepy?’_ Zayn signs, thumbing soft curls from Sameer’s forehead.

Sameer shrugs, yawning loudly. He hiccups a small laugh while stretching, signing, _‘A little.’_

 _‘Nap?’_ Zayn offers.

Sameer nods with a lofty grin, snuggling down into the pillows. _‘Okay, baba,’_ he signs, almost swallowed by the duvet.

The storm drowns the room in silvery shadows so Zayn clicks on a nightlight before wandering off with Liam, listening out for Sameer’s soft snores.

The world outside is still blue and grey and bits of green when they stumble into the laundry cupboard.

It’s a tight fit for two bodies but Zayn doesn’t seem to mind at all. He likes the way their hips knock, Liam stuffing the washer with Sameer’s soiled clothes while Zayn adds the powder. They’re still in their rain-soaked kits, Liam’s joggers damp enough to drag them low on his hips and Zayn’s jumper is dripping all over the tiles.

There’s a dim rustle of music from the kitchen, Harry’s favorite radio station left on, a square of pale silver light reaching into the doorway. Zayn smiles to himself, this slow motion fuzz in his blood like he’s not even in his skin anymore.

He’s somewhere else. Somewhere brighter and tinted blue. That place you go in dreams.

“Alright?” Liam asks, nudging Zayn’s hip with his own.

Zayn nods slowly, damp eyelashes fluttering, eyes downcast.

“Mint,” Zayn replies in a weak imitation of Harry’s slow drawl. “Just – today was pretty wicked, eh?”

Liam hums a response, elbowing the washer door shut. “S’ppose so.”

Zayn keeps his smile to himself, his jumper hanging off his skin, this clammy feeling all over but it doesn’t bother him.

Not even a little when Liam shuffles to the side, slipping behind Zayn, presses him up into the cold metal of the tumbler. Zayn sighs happily with cold fingertips inching under the hem of his jumper, Liam’s narrow hips shoved to Zayn’s bum.

He stutters out a surprised breath, grinning when one of Liam’s hands finds his chin, tips his head back.

“Could make it better, y’know,” Liam mumbles, dragging kisses over the nape of Zayn’s neck, along the fantail ink stain. “Could make it proper sick.”

“Think so?” Zayn asks, teasingly.

The tumbler thumps against the wall as Liam shuffles Zayn, palming at his hipbone, twisting Zayn’s head enough to kiss him. Its wet and openmouthed, dirty with the mud drying on their skin and their clothes stinking of coppery rain. Zayn relaxes into it.

The kisses are soft and Zayn has sorted out that’s the way Liam likes to kiss – like mouthing cotton. Like the deep breath of oxygen that fills your lungs at the start of the morning.

Something so big he can’t wrap his mind around it all.

“Always thinking about,” Liam mumbles over Zayn’s mouth, “fucking you, babe. Or you bending me over. Dunno why but, yeah. Like, it’s what I think about.”

“Filthy,” Zayn laughs, flicking his tongue into the kiss. Liam tastes like cinnamon and his morning coffee, something addictively sweet.

He can feel the chub of Liam’s dick on his arse, tenting out his joggers, a thick throbbing line that Zayn craves. His own dick twitches in his shorts, fattening up, his skin starting to heat up even under the damp clothes.

“Couldn’t imagine not seeing how you get in bed,” Liam whispers. “The way your cock gets so wet when I’m dicking you. How you bite off your words like – “

“Fuck,” Zayn groans, rocking his hips back into Liam. He loves the reward of Liam gasping, grinding off on Zayn’s arse like he can’t help himself.

“More,” he stutters.

“Yeah?” Liam grins, biting Zayn’s lower lip. “Could fuck you right here.”

It’s an electric shock all down Zayn’s spine and he whines softly. Liam’s hands splay over the tumbler, on either side of Zayn’s hips, keeping him pinned and defenseless.

He’s caged in and a little claustrophobic except he’s starting to fall in love with this – giving Liam the control. Finally shedding his armor. All of these vulnerable pulses in his blood that he doesn’t want to quiet.

He wants to be impatient and loud and safe in Liam’s arms, under the weight of his dick and soft breaths.

“Do it.”

It’s a dare, a challenge. He’s taunting Liam, brushing his arse over the shape of Liam’s cock, tipping his head back to expose his throat. It’s all a bait and fucking Liam leaps for it.

They twist around shamelessly, Liam using both hands to palm Zayn’s bum before lifting him up, dropping him hastily onto the tumbler. Their kisses go a little frantic, rough and manic. Zayn strips off his jumper, the wet smack on the floor ringing in his ears. His heart pounds that unnecessary shot of adrenaline and impatience before Liam begs off his own shirt.

Fingers rush up his thighs until Zayn spreads his legs deliberately lewd, chewing on his bottom lip. He leans back, wiggling his eyebrows at Liam. A blatant invitation because Liam hovers over him like he’s waiting.

“Fucking hell,” Liam breathes, rough. He smothers kisses to Zayn’s skin, down his collarbones, over the stain of red lips at the center of his chest.

Zayn groans lowly and, admittedly, his thighs are shaking and his cock is straining against his shorts but –

This is about Liam. He wants Liam to _take it_ rather than ask for it and –

Liam bites messy marks to Zayn’s skin, sinking down until he’s sat on his haunches, pulling down Zayn’s shorts. Zayn hikes his hips up to help but it’s all pointless because Liam’s determined. He’s strong, nearly ripping the nylon off, twisting his fingers in Zayn’s pants too.

Zayn huffs into his shoulder, legs cocked apart, spread for Liam’s view. His cock smacks wetly on his belly, spitting out precome, standing a flushed red against the dark hairs around the base. His tongue drags over his lips, the taste of Liam’s kisses sharper than the rain.

“You’re insane,” Liam exhales, nuzzling in. “Fucking drive me mad.”

Zayn grins, tipping his head back. He can’t watch – he never does. Liam’s absolutely _obscene_ on his knees, like he’s hungry for it. _Starved_ , Zayn thinks. He’s so eager whenever he’s sucking Zayn off, wanting Zayn to flick his hips until his cock sinks to the back of Liam’s throat. He wants Zayn’s needy whimpers, moaning weakly around Zayn’s cock and always, always wanking himself off.

He gets off on pleasing Zayn like that. Swollen lips and slick tongue and hollowing his cheeks like a proper porn star giving a show.

It’s bloody ridiculous.

Liam snuffles the inside of Zayn’s thighs, wrapping a trembling hand around his cock. He seeks out all of the damp spaces, licking lazy hearts and stupid shapes over Zayn’s skin. He never goes for the head of Zayn’s dick – just the spaces around it.

Breathy kisses on Zayn’s hip, the tip of his tongue drawing wet lines over the tattoos. Harsh exhales into the coarse hair, the soft trail up to Zayn’s navel. Gentle bites on the inside of Zayn’s thigh, leaving fading rose marks. He buries his nose in it like he’s eating Zayn out, licking behind his balls to the soft skin.

He keeps his eyes closed, his mouth wet, his tongue insistent. The noises he makes (whimpers and whines and breathless keens) keep flooding Zayn’s ears until he carelessly palms the back of Liam’s head.

“Fuck,” Liam groans, the sound vibrating behind Zayn’s balls.

Zayn swallows a moan but his thighs shake and he spreads even more for Liam. He just wants a finger or a tongue or just a breath on his hole. Anything, really.

“Tastes so good,” Liam mumbles, inching back up to Zayn’s thigh.

Shameful exhales escape Zayn’s parted lips when his cock jerks out thicker drops of precome. He’s leaking heavily in Liam’s palm and he just wants Liam to pull him off just a little. Just to take off the edge. Just thumb the bloody head and –

“Could stay here all day,” Liam whispers into Zayn’s skin. “Thinking about sucking you ‘til you nut off on my tongue, babe. Christ, I just wanna swallow – “

“Don’t,” Zayn snaps, trying to control the roll of his hips. He feels every nerve under his skin and the way his muscles throb.

Its criminal is what it is.

“Just like. Get up here and fuck me,” Zayn huffs, finally flitting his eyes down to Liam.

He hates the stupid grin on Liam’s lips, his swollen mouth half on Zayn’s balls, this thumb casually rubbing the slick around the slit of Zayn’s cock.

“Getting all restless, ain’t you, love?” Liam teases.

Zayn scowls but refuses to stop his hips from knocking off the tumbler to grind into Liam’s palm.

“Liam,” he says warningly but there isn’t an ounce of heat in his voice. Instead, it’s needy in ways he hates to be for anyone.

(anyone except Liam and that’s the sort of lesson Zayn hates learning)

Liam drags his mouth up Zayn’s belly, mouthing little words over his clammy, cold skin. His hand fights nervously (because, in most ways, Liam’s still a little shy about all of this – even with Zayn) with his joggers until he shoves them halfway down his thighs and he’s _bare_ underneath –

“Shit,” Zayn gasps, leaning back to tilt his hips up for Liam.

“Wow,” Liam breathes, nicking kisses off Zayn’s throat, their stubble burning as they finally meet halfway. “Need the, like, _lube_ , Zayn. And a condom. Where the fuck does Harry keep the condoms in this bloody house?”

“Do we, like, um,” Zayn pauses, his lips slick over Liam’s. His fingers find Liam’s damp hair and they stare at each other for a long moment. “Do we need ‘em this time? Can’t you like – it’s a bit overdone, innit?”

“Lube?” Liam asks, blinking at Zayn.

Zayn sighs loudly, tugging at Liam’s hair. “No, you knob. The like condoms thing. Can’t we, um, maybe?”

He can feel Liam’s slick cock rutting against the inside of his thigh, everything at the wrong angle and he just wants to arch his spine enough to –

“Bare?” Liam wonders, breathless.

Zayn bites his lip and he’s never been so shy. Not with anyone. It’s always just a casual shag, forgetting all the rules, knowing he won’t have to ring some lad or bird in the morning if he didn’t have to. All a bit predictable and perfunctory, he thinks. Snog a bit, strip off, coming over someone’s belly or inside someone.

But with Liam –

It’s all so different.

Zayn gives a nervous nod and he’s so desperate for it. To let down his guard, to have Liam shove inside him, to muffle all of his aching moans in Liam’s shoulder because he doesn’t want the world to see him like this.

(Or Liam.)

His cheeks turn a stiff pink when Liam smiles. He’s unprepared for the messy kiss or the way Liam angles an arm under his hips to scoop him up just a little. The wet nudge of Liam’s cock, proper slick and dripping over Zayn’s hole, startles him but Liam calms him into a kiss. He keeps purposefully doing it so soft, rolling his hips, dragging his slick all over Zayn’s bum. It’s a proper distraction that Zayn wants to yell at him about it but Liam flicks his lips into a smooth smile before wiggling his dick inside.

“Oh shit,” Zayn blurts out, clenching around Liam.

He’s absolutely _eager_ for this. The wet slide of Liam sinking inside of him, the way he feels so full so quick because Liam is so thick. That tense jump of muscle in his thighs, spreading out for Liam. The sharp pain in his belly because, fuck, _it hurts_. It aches in that good-awful way Zayn’s prone to fall in love with.

His toes curl and he paws at Liam’s shoulders. His spine arches like a half halo and Liam remains still. He’s halfway in and Zayn’s panting like mad.

He knows better – should’ve gone for some fingers first. Maybe let Liam rim him lazily. Just a tongue and thick fingers until he was loose but –

They’ve done this enough – the shagging. His body takes a few beats before he feels the sting start to fade just a little.

“Can back out,” Liam offers, mouthing kisses all over Zayn’s collarbones. “I can get off just fingering you, babe. Come all over your hole, fucking it in with my fingers and – “

Zayn whines and forces himself down on Liam’s cock, taking another inch. “Piss off, fuck,” he breathes, eyes squeezed shut. “Fucking massive dick and I’m so _full_ , Leeyum. You’re not even – you’re not all the way and I feel so full, babe. So hard from it.”

And he is – pulsing off his belly. A sticky head and a thick vein running down the underside.

Liam’s drawing back, soft little jolts of his hips like he’s letting Zayn get used to it. The head catching on the rim, Liam pulling the foreskin back and parting Zayn’s thighs enough to have a look. Zayn’s hole shiny from the precome and Liam shifts forward enough that the air is knocked out of Zayn’s lungs before he’s halfway in again.

The shaft stretches Zayn open and he feels the ache again, all down his calves this time. He huffs a breath, his lungs contracting wildly. He chokes on a whimper, throat muscles closing around the sound and Liam pushes in a little further.

“C’mon,” Zayn whines, thudding his head on the wall. “Y’can do better than that.”

“Could,” Liam agrees, mouthing kisses over Zayn’s damp brow. “Could fuck you until you’re dripping everywhere. Have you proper loud for me. Get you off ‘til you don’t know what it’s like not to have my dick in you.”

Zayn shivers and Liam’s mouth is bloody antagonizing in the best possible way. He flushes with sweat and keeps spreading his legs. He feels the sharp draw of Liam splitting him open but he won’t back off. He inches further onto Liam’s cock without him asking, biting his lip nearly bloody.

He just wants Liam so deep in him that he overheats like a star burning up.

Liam’s cock is fat inside of him, twitching in pulses. Zayn thinks he can feel it – the precome. Making him wet and it’s filthy, the sort of thing Zayn has a proper wank over. Imagining Liam bent over him, pounding him, coming deep in Zayn and then leaking out.

He gasps and Liam seats himself all the way inside.

“Careful, careful,” Liam warns when Zayn tries to shift. He presses a hot palm to Zayn’s cheek, rubbing at his stubble. “No hurry.”

Zayn mutters something but he’s not sure what. He doesn’t know if he’s even really speaking. He thinks half of his words are coming out in Urdu and all of his babbling makes Liam giggle over his head, tilting his hips until he presses into Zayn at a different angle.

He swallows a hot breath, tilting his head up, blinking his eyes open. From this spot, Liam’s eyes are a coffee color and his pink smile is small, gentle.

“Keep going,” he says, his voice gone hoarse. “Fuck me.”

“That’s a good lad,” Liam mumbles and he complies so eagerly.

He draws back, snaps forward, finds an outrageous rhythm that drags scorching breaths through Zayn’s lungs. But he leans into it, takes it willingly. He likes the thought of a bruised bum and Liam’s fingerprints all over his hips.

Zayn doesn’t have the mind (or the patience) to reach between them and touch himself. He feels lazy and tangled, arching to take more of Liam. The tumbler rattles against the wall noisily and Liam is so efficient. He knows the angle to dick into Zayn, the way to rock his hips to make Zayn muster enough strength to whimper loudly.

Liam’s noisier above him, grunting, breathing roughly through his nose. Their skin smacking together dulled by Liam’s keening, this mutter of _‘so tight so fucking_ tight _love how you squeeze around me babe’_ that Zayn thinks to memorize like a classic love song or summat.

Instead, he squeezes at Liam’s bicep and buries his face in the soft, damp hairs on Liam’s chest.

“Can’t hear you,” Liam sighs, moving faster.

Zayn groans, this hollow noise that rattles his throat muscles. He whimpers over Liam’s chest and feels his cock twitch over and over. He feels close and so hard, loving the softness of Liam’s belly pressing repeatedly over the head of his dick.

“Fuck, Liam,” he exhales, his fingers biting into Liam’s skin. “So big. So deep in me, like – shit. Keep going deep.”

Liam chuckles, breathy and helpless, snuffing his nose to Zayn’s forehead. “Love it, babe?”

He almost slips – the words almost flick off his tongue and the restraint in his throat keeps him from focusing on the way Liam’s dicking all over his prostate. His spine hurts from the exertion and it’s all he wants to think about.

(Instead of three words, instead of ruining his life for a boy who’s not going to stay)

“You take it so good,” Liam whimpers, solid thrusts that have Zayn clenching around him. “Lemme – “

Liam wraps a sweaty hand around Zayn’s cock before he can think and he goes blind off the pleasure. He tips his head back, knocking against Liam’s chin, ignoring the throb it creates to concentrate on the lazy flick of Liam’s wrist. The way he’s almost as good at pulling Zayn off as he is himself.

He can’t keep quiet, not like he usually is. He’s never as loud as Liam but, in this tiny cupboard on top of a cold tumbler with the washer rattling noisily next to them, he loses it. He sheds the armor and Liam leans down to kiss at his parted lips as Zayn shakes under him.

Zayn comes in these white hot streaks, jizzing over his belly, between Liam’s fingers. It’s sloppy and so bloody _wet_ that he knows Liam’s hand will slip off. But Liam tightens his fist and shoves a rough _‘you’re so fucking tight around me how the bloody hell’_ over Zayn’s mouth before falling apart.

Rough, erratic thrusts and Zayn can hear the squelch when Liam starts to fuck his come inside of Zayn. Sliding out to ease the wet head right back in, spurting come over the rim.

“Can’t believe that you’re just so – “

Zayn shushes Liam with a kiss. It’s a panic move, he knows, but he needs it. He needs Liam to fuck off and be quiet. He needs to resign all of these neon loud feelings under his skin to drip out of his pores like sweat.

Liam lays his forehead to Zayn’s shoulder, rubbing off the sweat while Zayn tightens his knees around Liam’s hips. He just wants Liam to _stay, stay, stay_ –

Even if his mind wants Liam to go away. He wants back to London and the art gallery and to feel like a bloody stranger in a massive city.

At least, in London, Zayn doesn’t know what those three words mean or how to feel them for anyone but his family or his son.

 

##

 

It’s just after six in the morning and the sun is lifting like a tiny red fireball in the distance. The sky is melting from cobalt into a blush pink, tinged crimson like a ripe apricot.

The room is filled with pale amber light and Zayn’s sat on the couch, legs pulled up, sketching languidly in bright watercolor pencils. His eyes are still a bit heavy but he blinks away the sleep and breathes in that leafy scent that always lingers after a good storm.

The house has that nice chill to it, where the floors are icy under your bare feet. A prickly cold that forced Zayn into one of Liam’s old jumpers he finds stuffed in a drawer. Some grey, slim-fit thing where the sleeves hang over his hands and gaps at his hips. He loves pushing up the sleeves and how the collar is stretched all the way out, the script of his tattoos visible.

He thinks of making toast, maybe that imported blend of coffee Harry keeps stuffed at the back of a cupboard in the kitchen. The floors are too cold and he doesn’t want to move.

Instead, he watches the sun burn over his retinas and keeps sketching out guidelines for one of Sameer’s stuffed teddy bears sitting in the windowsill.

“G’mornin’,” Liam mumbles, rubbing at his eyes while dragging his feet. He flops down into the inch of space between Zayn and the arm of the couch

(instead of the opposite side, where there is plenty of room because Liam has _no concept of space_ )

(and Zayn never complains)

to snuggle around Zayn. His absent fingers run over the wolf stained dark to Zayn’s calf, his breath minty from toothpaste as he exhales over Zayn’s shoulder.

Zayn keeps his eyes low, his tongue hanging sideways from his mouth, determined fingers smudging the colors. “Can’t sleep,” he mumbles distractedly when Liam starts to half-nod off again.

Liam hums and Zayn doesn’t have to look at him to know he’s smiling. That’s instinct.

“It’s too quiet,” Zayn adds, lips pouting thoughtlessly. “But, like, I quite like it here. Think I’ve gotten used to it, y’know? S’cool.”

Liam breathes softly, something meant to be a laugh but it’s like a rush of air instead. “So stay,” he says in that sleep-heavy voice, rough and deep. He’s smiling on Zayn’s shoulder. “Leave London behind. Start over.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Don’t be daft. This isn’t some silly film, mate.”

He doesn’t mean for it to come out harsh or condescending. It’s an impulse reaction, really. It’s not that he hasn’t consider the idea, briefly, whenever Harry chats it up or something. He just – it’s not right. Zayn knows life isn’t that simply figured out.

Liam doesn’t look overly offended when Zayn looks up. He’s a bit hunched over, small like a puppy, lips poking out. Zayn nudges him and Liam beams up at him like he’s grateful just for the attention.

“You’re sort of brilliant at that,” Liam says, nodding down at the sketch. He covers Zayn’s spare hand on the sketchpad, tilting it for a better look.

“Shut up,” Zayn grins.

“You are,” Liam argues, tossing a hint of conviction into his scratchy voice. “Should frame all of them. Why don’t you sell them at your gallery shows? Should be on display somewhere.”

Zayn turns his head away, mostly to cover the blush, but also because it’s just some worthless dream now –

“I could never get anyone proper into my stuff,” he explains, his nose twitching. “Everyone said I was alright. Nothing great. I got that all of the time in uni until I just – I stopped? Did it more for me’self, I reckon. Cause my dad is so good at it.”

“But you’re brilliant,” Liam blurts out. He curls an arm around Zayn like comfort and Zayn wants to knock him away but he laughs.

A soft, genuine laugh that explains all of the appreciation he can’t quite put into words.

( _not yet_.)

“I almost gave up on my dreams,” Liam whispers. He brushes his nose over Zayn’s cheek and it’s cold. “But my mates wouldn’t let me. Guess it’s why I’m off to the States before the new school term starts up.”

Zayn chews at his lip. They don’t really discuss it anymore even though it’s there. Every fucking minute, the thought hovers over Zayn’s shoulders, reminding him not to get too attached. It’s just a fling, right? He knows no one ever falls in love with the fling; not exactly.

“See,” he sighs, trying not to wince. “Daft dreams.”

He shoves away the sketchpad, frowning. There’s a stray mark in the middle of the drawing and that’s it. This moment is just a stray mark in a dull illustration. An honest mistake.

But he doesn’t pull away when Liam curls around him. He laughs, bright and happy, tilting his head into Liam’s. He feels warm and the morning lights the room up like it’s on fire. Their fingers blindly find each other and they watch the sunrise in silence.

One more day in a village Zayn doesn’t want to remember after Liam’s gone.

 

##

 

“And then he just, the fucking wanker, shoved me into the loos and snogged me,” Niall laughs, a rough hand smacking his thigh. He takes a quick gulp of cold beer, the foam sticking to his upper lip. “I’m sure it was the tequila – “

“Rum,” Harry corrects, looking flustered with heavy blush.

“Whatever,” Niall smirks back, curling an arm around Harry’s shoulders. “It was like, fuckin’ _finally_ with this twit. Didn’t think he had it in him.”

Harry rolls his eyes with an affectionate smile. “Not quite how I remember this story going, Ni.”

“Ah, fuck off,” Niall smirks, crooked and bright. “You were hammered – “

“You were the one falling over your own feet, mate,” Harry argues with a thick voice stuffed with fondness.

They trade stupid smiles, pulling faces and shrugging before downing their beers while Liam giggles riotously in the background, leaning back like he always does when he thinks something is genuinely amsuing.

It’s one last dinner, a half-arsed roast because Niall demands it and none of them argue him over it. They’re gathered around some worn wood table at the back of the pub, last call already given, most of the customers stumbling out with lazy waves and hiccupping laughs. They’ve raided the kitchen for grub – salty mash and steamy carrots and the last half of a roasted chicken – while Niall filled a tray filled with mugs of beer and apple juice for Sameer.

Just the five of them like it’s been almost every night for nearly two weeks now.

Two weeks that Zayn is certain he won’t forget for years. It feels so _unfortunate_.

He’s half-turned towards Sameer, trying to (cautiously) sign every bit of their conversations for his son to follow along with. He scratches at his temple, re-wording every other story, omitting the foul language Niall can’t help but sputter and all of the filthy details Harry likes to supply with a nervous smile.

Sameer giggles into his palm, watching, sighing contently.

 _‘They’re talking about when Uncle Harry kissed Uncle Niall,’_ he signs out, biting the swell of his bottom lip.

He’s certain half of the things he signs out makes the stories a bloody mess but Sameer keeps shaking with laughter and signing back.

 _‘Gross, baba!’_ he signs, smacking a hand over his eyes.

Zayn chuckles, Liam’s chin digging into his shoulder while he signs, _‘I know. Kissing is bad.’_

Sameer huffs a breath, scrunching his nose. _‘But you kiss Mr. Liam – ‘_

A tight breath catches in Zayn’s lungs and he looks away, bashfully. He feels Liam’s nose pressed to his cheek and the temptation is there – just to snog him.

Maybe lose half of his thoughts in that soft, honeycomb color of Liam’s eyes in this lighting.

(no, no – that’s daft because he knows better and he knows this _thing_ , still a little nameless, has a time limit that’s quickly ticking away)

“But you crawled into my bedroom and shagged me the next night! You were _gone for me_ , dude.”

Zayn winces a little when he catches Sameer trying to follow Harry’s lips, the way he wraps his mouth around every word almost like Liam does. He inclines into Sameer’s eye line, shaking his head, signing, _‘Rubbish, babe. Niall watched a film with Harry.’_

Sameer wrinkles his brow, confused and Zayn feels the flush all over his skin, slouching in his chair.

_‘But baba – ‘_

Zayn’s teeth wreck his bottom lip and he can tell Sameer knows better. Only five years old and already so brilliant. Sweat thickens over his brow and he wants to blame it on the cheap beer or the heatwave of a summer but –

He reaches out to distract Sameer by tapping the end of his nose, making silly faces to divert Sameer’s attention from the way Niall’s gobbing about the first time he sucked Harry off at the back of the bakery and –

Zayn loses himself a bit when Liam’s fingers, soft and thick, roll tiny shapes over the small of his back. Gentle little strokes in the dimples, even though Liam’s still cackling over Harry and Niall’s useless banter.

(But it’s like they need the connection, even when they’re focused on other things. The small touches and tiny sparks like baby stars ready to go supernova.

Zayn can’t escape it and Liam keeps absentmindedly falling into this routine.)

“Gotta have you lot back up for the hols,” Niall says, his voice eager. “It’s a madhouse ‘round these parts then. Proper family time.”

Zayn flinches, unconsciously, and Harry leans into Niall’s ear, whining, “ _Babe_.”

Niall blinks for a moment, confused. Zayn instantly feels Liam retract a little, his fingers losing their pattern, his chin lifted off Zayn’s shoulder.

“Oh. Right. Bloody fuck up of me, yeah?” Niall stammers, pushing his newsy cap back, his cheeks pounding out pink freckles. “Bugger. Didn’t mean t’ like, ‘m sorry. No offense and stuff, like.”

Liam lifts a kind hand, smiling. “No, s’cool, mate. Sounds nice. Catch a flight back from the States f’r some Christmas pudding?”

Harry sighs softly like he knows what Liam is doing. A diversionary tactic. Just a change of subject because the four of them haven’t talked about it. Not like this.

Niall makes a face, scrunching his eyebrows. “Y’ hate that shit, bro,” he says in a dull tone.

Liam nods happily, shrugging. “And I hate chatting about missing you boys, so let’s just.”

He pauses, dropping his chin some and Zayn thinks to twist away from Sameer and knock Liam’s chin up. Thumb over his mouth until he smiles and they’re both a little okay with what they don’t talk about. How they know it’s better for Liam to chase his dreams instead of drowning them at the bottom of some wishing pond like Zayn.

Instead, he forks up more chicken for Sameer and keeps turned away from Liam.

(He’s still not ready to talk about it or drown in the echo of three stupid words at the back of his mind.)

(It’s not fair.)

“Fair play,” Niall sighs, pushing his chair back, stumbling. He’s got bright blue eyes but a half-sad smile like he’s trying but none of this is working. “It’d be a bit grand to have you bunch around, y’know? The three of you.”

Liam clears his throat roughly, bobbing his head to the static-y strain of whatever’s playing on the jukebox while Zayn keeps trying to slow his heartbeat.

He keeps trying to feel a little detached from all of this.

(It’s not working, but still.)

Harry maneuvers clumsily around the table, plopping down in the vacant chair next to Sameer with a cheeky grin while Niall clears the dirty dishes from the table. He scoops his ( _Niall’s_ ) snapback off of his head, dropping it backwards on top of Sameer’s soft hair. It’s oversized and shadows the sharp color of Sameer’s eyes until Harry tips the lid down with a laugh, Sameer’s fuzzy eyebrows drawn up.

Zayn feels a tiny, cheerful smile slide over his lips at the sight. He sniffs, downing the rest of his beer while Harry reclines in a loosely buttoned argyle shirt, cocking his smirk higher at Sameer.

“How do I say, um,” Harry starts, this slow like honey voice so fondly familiar now, “how do I _sign_ how happy I am to have met him?”

A soft, genuine grin flinches across Zayn’s lips. He slowly motions Harry through each word, reaching out to fix his fingers and his hand movements until Harry’s a little more comfortable. He leans back, absently pressing his spine to Liam’s chest, biting over his swollen lower lip as Harry shakily signs for Sameer.

(His heart beats out of his ears when Sameer studies Harry with his head tilted to the side.)

Sameer sits still, blinking owlishly for a moment. It’s awkwardly quiet, nothing but _‘there’s been a lot of talk of love but that don’t amount to nothing’_ from the jukebox and Niall messing about with the dishes.

“Did I muck it up?” Harry asks, nervously. He trades looks between Zayn and Liam, chewing at his thumbnail, his brow deeply furrowed.

Zayn snorts, jerking his chin in Sameer’s direction.

Harry turns just in time to watch Sameer sign, _‘me too, Uncle Harry.’_

His eager smiles shoves his cheeks into his eyes, all crinkles and white teeth for Harry. The snapback sits a bit lopsided, making him look adorably daft and Harry’s cheeks turn a bright red afterwards.

“What’d he say?”

Liam leans in just enough, fingers settling to Zayn’s spine once more. “Same, Haz,” he replies before Zayn can swallow. “He’s quite fond of you, too.”

Harry’s swooning, a tad overdramatic with his excited yelp. He’s already knocked a few pints back, Zayn knows, and he wants to blame the buzz but he thinks, somewhere, Harry’s just a bit in love with Sameer.

(Like Zayn is with this village and the Greyhound and maybe even – )

“Careful now,” Niall warns in a teasing voice. He hugs Harry’s neck from behind, carefully pressing his smirk to a dimple with a glass of whiskey-ginger between his pale fingers. “You’re gonna make this one want a few of his own.”

There’s a fuzz of laughter around the table at Harry’s blush. They’re just taking the piss at each other, Zayn too, but that curls through his blood. A numbness low on his spine from Liam’s fingers. And, before Zayn realizes it, he’s attached.

Bloody over the moon for this place and this quiet and this boy.

 

##

 

Zayn is sort of in love with Liam like this –

Breathless above Zayn, sat on his dick with a nice gloss of sweat inching down his skin and teeth tugging mercilessly at his plush bottom lip while his thighs twitch. Soft palms spread across Zayn’s smaller chest for leverage as he lifts and falls like a tugboat wading on the sea in a thunderstorm.

The sharp clip of the moon through the curtains is the only thing that illuminates him. He’s tarnished silver and blue from it. Hard and soft all over the planes of his body.

The crickets and the wind hum like an orchestra but all Zayn can hear is Liam’s stuttered little pleas –

Like he can’t get enough. Like he’s so keyed up on riding Zayn’s cock in these slow rocks. Like he’s chasing this high with hiccupping breaths and fingerprint bruises along Zayn’s skin.

Zayn is a bit in love with it all.

Liam whimpers when Zayn shifts below him, just a fluent roll of Zayn’s hips to nudge deeper. Zayn keeps his hands on Liam’s thighs, balancing him, soft strokes of his fingers like encouragement.

“You can be louder, babe,” he grins, flattening his feet on the mattress to push up into Liam. His thumbs sweep over soft tissue until Liam shivers. “Y’know you want to. It’s alright. Lemme hear you.”

A sharp breath stings through Liam’s lungs and he exhales so _beautifully_. Like he’s needy. A fat, leaking cock bouncing each time he drags up and down Zayn’s dick. A steady waterfall of precome dripping down the underside, a swimming pool of slick dripping into Zayn’s navel.

The door is locked ( _a just in case Sameer wakes in the night_ ) and the stereo is thrumming in the corner, drowning out Liam’s whines (another emergency tactic to keep Loki away) and Zayn settles his hips into an easy rhythm to counter all of Liam’s lazy motions.

“Oh fuck,” Liam heaves, curling over a bit when Zayn fucks up hard. “Right there. Fuck, you don’t know – “

“So tell me,” Zayn challenges. His lips are still quirked deviously high, fingers tightening into the meat of Liam’s thighs.

Liam shakes his head but moves a little surer, just a hint of confidence like he knows what Zayn _needs_ –

The soft clutch of Liam’s arse, the way he grips around the tip of Zayn’s cock, his voice going all sweet and falsetto when he grinds all the way down.

The frame of the bed knocks gently on the wall. The duvet is stripped, pillows gone haphazardly on the floor. Their kits are all over and Zayn honestly doesn’t give a shit.

He just wants to watch all of the shards in Liam’s composure exposed while in the middle of nowhere. Just one last night in Wombourne –

( _back to London, back to London, back to London_ )

Zayn settles back into himself at the sound of Liam’s achy moans. He blinks up and Liam’s eyes are so dark from here. Black coffee with a swollen red mouth and flushed cheeks. He’s still chewing away the skin from his lower lip but he’s losing some of his bravado.

And it feels perpetually overwhelming because Zayn knows what he needs without asking.

Yet, they both know Liam likes the tease of it all so Zayn just grins.

“Want somethin’ babe?” he asks, spreading his legs but never moving.

Liam nods, looking a bit helpless, sinking all the way down on Zayn’s prick.

“Hmm?”

A scoff chases off Liam’s lips and he furrows his brow into deep knots. “Zayn,” he whines, lifting and falling lazily now. “C’mon, like, _you know_ – “

Zayn huffs a quiet laugh. He shakes his head, sweaty hands slipping all the way up to Liam’s hips, thumbs easing into the indents of a hollow bone.

“Tell me.”

“Piss off,” Liam frowns but it doesn’t halt him from rocking on Zayn’s dick again.

“Hey,” Zayn whispers, softer, his smile going crooked. He lifts his eyebrows until Liam melts away his pout. “Just need you t’say it, Leeyum. S’not so bad, yeah? I fancy the way you get in bed. Like this. Chatting shit about how much you love my cock when I – “

His hips raise and tilt for a nice drag. The heat around his cock gets brighter and Liam tries so bloody hard to be quiet but a tight exhale breaks through his throat.

“Go deep like that.”

Liam’s spine arches like a half-moon and he nods. His shiny wet lips part and he finally groans like a newborn wolf. He settles himself but his thighs keep trembling and his hands slip over Zayn’s chest, tickling Zayn’s nipples, before he pants at the ceiling.

“Fuck me,” Liam pleads. “Like this, Zayn. Just – _fuck me_. Wanna feel it – “

It’s all Zayn really needs. Nothing more.

He loves how none of this feels routine. The way they shag, the positions they maneuver into, how he never tires of being facedown in the sheets while Liam pounds into him from behind or watching Liam twitch all over while Zayn spoons behind him to fuck him.

It’s a little bit like the music, his heartbeat, everything attuned to _‘we can take we can take we can take our time stay here in slow motion’_ in the background.

The world goes out of focus, hazy and bright, when they find their pace. Zayn throttling into Liam while Liam breathes heavy and grinds down onto him. His cock drips messily and instinct takes over. Zayn knows, in the hollows of his chest, this could go for hours but it’s already half two and they have a drive in the morning –

(back to reality and away from Wombourne – away from the place that’s starting to ink _‘home’_ all over Zayn’s heart)

Zayn reaches between Liam’s shivering thighs, skimming up Liam’s tight balls, sliding across the slick towards Liam’s shaft.

“No, no,” Liam begs, curling forward. Their foreheads nearly knock and Liam clumsily swats Zayn’s hand away.

Zayn blinks at him, the crimson splatter across Liam’s cheeks distracting.

“Don’t want that,” he mumbles. They haven’t lost their rhythm, still slamming together, but it feels hazier.

 _Dreamy_ , if Zayn really thought about it. He doesn’t want to.

“Like, I was watching a bit of, um, porn a few weeks back,” Liam admits, his voice gone nervy and tight, bashful.

Zayn smirks, rolling his hips for the gasp Liam releases. “Naughty, babe. Having a proper pull of your cock without me? Thinking about how much you like – “

“For _research_ ,” Liam reprimands but he’s still blushing. “There was this one queued up,” he swallows around his words with a hand around Zayn’s shoulder, another sweaty palm pressed to Zayn’s cheek. “This bloke was – he was so into being shagged. Proper loud and hard.”

Something stutters all over Zayn’s skin at the image

(Liam bent over, pulling at the sheets, taking all of Zayn like he was meant to open up for the width of Zayn’s dick)

and he rocks a little slower so Liam’s voice doesn’t flutter lower. He wants Liam’s attention and focus.

“It was, like,” Liam breathes, eyes squeezed tight. “He just shot off without trying. All over the bed. Didn’t even have a proper hand around himself. It was like, well. All he needed was the other lad fucking him.”

It’s a hiccup that stirs Zayn from his thoughts. His fingers tiptoe up skin to find the spaces between Liam’s ribs and he steadies himself on the music, the _‘go on put this joint between your lips’_ while Liam pants roughly.

He shoves deep and stays, throbbing inside of Liam until he knows Liam is ready again.

“Wanted t’ like,” Liam winces, abashed and vulnerable for a second. “Got off on the idea that, like. Maybe I could too? Just from your – “

“My dick?” Zayn offers when Liam’s breathless.

The thick of Liam’s moan feels hot against Zayn’s face. He wants more.

“S’not the proper angle though, right? I mean, me on my back and stuff?” Zayn wonders.

Liam shoves a kiss to Zayn’s lips, openmouthed and messy, sweaty foreheads pressed together. He tightens around Zayn before pulling back.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, huskily. He leans into an upright position, crinkled eyes and a dopey smile. “It’s like – I’m always almost there, yeah? Every time you’re in me. Don’t know _how_ but, I am. Think that, um – “

He’s stammering and shaking and Zayn’s hands find his hips so quickly. He gives a comforting squeeze, nodding.

“Yeah, yeah,” he grins, gripping Liam, holding him in place while Zayn uses his feet to leverage himself in and out of Liam messily. “Can do that.”

He fucks a proper breath out of Liam, a soft moan. Their slick skin and all of the lube makes it noisy. It’s quite filthy, the way he knows Liam likes. Just the buzzing moon and wrinkled sheets and Zayn pounding into Liam.

“Yes,” Liam whines.

“So fucking _tight_ ,” Zayn gasps, tilting his head back. “Need more?”

“Shit. Zayn – yeah, yeah. Deeper, like. Like when you really get – “

Zayn groans, losing himself in all of Liam’s breaths and _‘so tell me when you’re ready I’m a speed it up for you just for a second’_ aching off the stereo.

“Fuck Liam.”

They’re swaying into the wave of it all. Liam’s noisier above him, finally rocking back down. Zayn’s feet slip on the sheets and he falls back onto the mattress, letting Liam take control. He grins giddily, eyeing the lines of Liam’s muscles and the way he goes all properly slow again.

(Wanting _more, more, longer_.)

He’s not paying attention when Liam wraps strong fingers around his wrist, dragging a hand away from his hip. They bypass Liam’s dick, throbbing and pulsing red, still spitting out sticky precome all over. Liam settles Zayn’s hand on his soft belly and –

 _Oh_.

This is different.

It’s like Liam’s finding a hint of confidence under his skin. A little less shame over his body and a little more trust in Zayn. He clucks his tongue when Zayn’s fingers tremble until Zayn halves a laugh, smoothing his hand all across Liam’s skin, over the soft muscles. Thumbing the thick hair around Liam’s navel and gently kneading his skin.

Liam hums his content, his spine sharp like the pulled string of a bow when he arches.

Zayn steadies his feet flat on the sheets and it goes like this –

He fucks the breaths out of Liam. He loses his focus on the way Liam shoves back, the long stretch of his neck shiny from sweat as he groans at the ceiling. Liam keeps Zayn’s hand pressed to his belly, his spare hand brushing over the tickling hairs of Zayn’s buzzcut. Synchronized breaths going hollow while they shag.

It’s a hurricane – a fucking tidal wave right here.

Liam makes an appreciative noise in the back of his throat when Zayn goes faster. Smacking skin and the headboard knocking off the wall. Their lips twisted into goofy smiles because they’re so bloody high on this.

“Can’t get enough?”

Liam scoffs. “Could do better with me fingers.”

“Bullocks,” Zayn laughs, one solid roll of his hips knocking the air from Liam’s lungs. “Y’need me dick.”

Liam rolls his eyes but his teeth grind merciless on his lower lip as he screws back down. “Maybe,” he teases. “Get off more on your mouth, though.”

His thumb traces the outline of Zayn’s parted lips for a second before Zayn closes his mouth around it. He sucks obscenely, tasting bittersweet precome, watching the flutter of Liam’s eyelashes and the way he’s so bloody close.

Clutching around Zayn’s dick, his own cock swaying, blush red and jumping.

(And this is still nice – the banter and the rock of their hips and how it all still feels so natural, _easy_.)

He’s distracted – by the music and Liam’s thumb on his tongue and the ache in his hips – but he feels Liam go still above him before he’s trembling. His lungs knock out a sharp gasp and his cock lurches before spurting come all over Zayn’s belly. A candy rainfall of pearl all down the shaft and across Zayn’s shiny skin.

It’s quite, well, _amazing_. Liam getting off on just riding Zayn and the way they’re both so fascinated by it all.

“Fuck, Liam, that’s,” Zayn swallows, habitually fucking into Liam with a little more intent. “Look at you. Just _look at you_ , babe.”

Liam’s pink all down his neck and chest but he’s shameless with his whimpering, his grunts. He fucks down onto Zayn’s dick until his prick stops twitching everywhere. His brow wrinkles with concentration, his mouth gone swollen from his teeth.

“Too early to say I told you so,” Liam teases, leaning down, smothering Zayn’s mouth with sharp kisses. “I just get so – dunno, man. Feels so good.”

“Yeah?” Zayn wonders, thrusting up into Liam.

He knows Liam’s usually sensitive and far too overwhelmed after coming to handle this. He likes to crawl off Zayn afterwards, teasing the tip of Zayn’s dick with his tongue before slurping him down until Zayn shoots off at the back of his throat but –

Liam just takes it. He grins over Zayn’s mouth and exhales encouraging words.

“Could go again in a minute,” Liam whispers, going tighter around Zayn. “Could just roll over and let you have at me, babe.”

It’s daft. It’s bloody idiotic that Liam’s smile and his stupid words is all it takes for Zayn to lose it. He palms over Liam’s belly and slips out, shakily stripping off the condom. Just two quick squeezes around the middle of the shaft and he’s squirting up the small of Liam’s back.

“Shit. Oh shit,” he whines.

Liam chuckles, nuzzling into the crook of Zayn’s neck. “Gross,” he mumbles, sniffing at Zayn’s skin. “Gonna have t’ get a flannel and clean me up.”

“You first.”

“Too lazy,” Liam whispers, the tip of his nose dragging under Zayn’s jaw.

The bedroom stinks of sweat, the stupid cherry lube Harry stashed for them, their musk and come. It’s a dizzy aroma enhanced by the green smell of the countryside and the old wood of the house.

They sigh happily together and it almost makes Zayn forget –

( _back to London_ )

He can feel the silver of the moon on the back of his eyelids and he hates this. He hates how, in a week, he’ll be a stranger in a city he’s known for too long now and this boy will be somewhere else.

Anywhere but in this bed with Zayn.

(He doesn’t think any of this was a mistake but, well – _maybe_.)

 

##

 

London is gold and blue like Zayn remembers, hints of red from the double-deckers and neon restaurant signs. It’s familiar. It tastes like smoke and it’s loud, electric like a shock.

But it’s nothing like Wombourne.

It takes him a few days to settle back into his flat. It’s cold and foreign but he cozies into that old feeling of the bedroom, the cushions of the sofa, the panoramic view of a grey city from his windows. He finds comfort in counting the minutes in the kitchen for the kettle to whistle on the hob, dumping a bag of Twinings into the cup, dropping the sugar in.

It’s almost as easy as breathing, sat in the lounge with Sameer coloring on the floor and the telly on low. He always finds his footing like this.

He’s half-convinced Wombourne was just one of those dream-sequences he sees in those sick X-Men films he loves – except he keeps waking up too early, angry at the raging sun, and waiting for the sunrise to calm him like it did back there.

That never works and he feels pitiful when he drags his feet back to bed, counting the minutes before Sameer crawls in and patting that empty space where he expects Liam to be.

(He’s not, though Liam has been by and kipped with them one lazy afternoon but there’s a –

It’s a distance he really doesn’t want to name but they both know it’s there.)

Louis and Caroline, Liam too, come by on a warm night for a takeaway dinner in the lounge. There’s tapas and Louis brings a sick bottle of red Nottage Hill he nicked from Simon’s collection. They crowd around the coffee table and sofa, Sameer and Liam sat on the floor, passing around plates while chatting.

It feels simple, almost like that small parish except –

Zayn wants Harry and Niall around, a pot of Harry’s vegetable stew and bottles of Carling. He doesn’t want this almost posh view of the city or the traffic outside. He wants fields of green and the scent of old wood from the pub.

(It’s stupid, honestly. Bloody ridiculous.)

“We had a massive row in the middle of Selfridges,” Louis whines, bare feet propped on the coffee table, pouring himself a third (maybe fourth) glass of wine. “ _Over curtains_. Like, bugger off, how d’ya argue with your _girl_ – “

Caroline swats at his feet until he drops them, hissing, “Manners, you twat.”

“Girlfriend?” Zayn proposes to distract Louis from scowling at Caroline.

They share endearing pouts and matching middle fingers before Louis half-turns to Zayn.

“That sounds a bit far-fetched, you think Malik?” Louis says, sounding affronted and affectionate at once.

Zayn shrugs, stealing the wine. “Arguing with someone over curtains for a loft you practically share sounds a bit like a relationship, bro. Just sayin’.”

Louis sucks in a loud breath and Caroline giggles into Zayn’s shoulder.

“Are you lot quite finished?” he huffs.

“Oh, come off it Tomlinson,” Caroline laughs, offering her empty glass to Zayn. “You’ve invested more than just your willy in that situation and y’know it. Always trying to be one of those cheeky lads.”

Louis rolls his eyes promptly, lips poked out in that melodramatic way only Louis Tomlinson can pull off. “Curtains,” he grumbles, mostly to himself, but Zayn and Caroline keel back with laughter, falling into each other.

“She still cross with you, mate?” Zayn wonders, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He’s studying Liam and Sameer, lost in their own little world, exchanging smiles and sign language like this has always been –

Like _this is right_.

“Won’t even sext me,” Louis scoffs, nicking the wine back even though they all know he’s had too many.

(Louis is a splendid drunk, really. The sort of lad that’ll corner off in a room with whomever, snog for a bit, order the table another round before stumbling out comically towards a cab.

A right cartoon character with lazy eyes and loud banter but Zayn doesn’t think he’s quite in the mood.)

“Oi, you naughty bastard,” Caroline squeaks, reaching across Zayn to knock Louis’ shoulder. “Told you I don’t want t’ hear about the boss’ son – “

“Step-son,” Louis and Zayn whisper, mechanically.

Zayn tunes them out for a breath. He chews his lower lip, the wine settling into his blood. He feels weightless even though gravity (and his stupid thoughts) keep anchoring him to the floor.

His eyes flit over Liam brushing his thumb to the corner of Sameer’s mouth, wiping away extra sauce. Sameer sighs happily, showing off his empty plate for Liam. And Liam, with that outrageously beautiful smile and huge eyes, cheers like Sameer’s discovered a new star in the galaxy.

They do a clumsy fist bump that turns more into Liam grabbing Sameer’s hand, happily dragging Sameer into his lap as he finishes his own leftover tapas. Zayn feels too calm watching, the corner of his mouth twitching into a vague smile.

Sameer leans back just enough to situate his hands before he signs, _‘I love you, abbu.’_

Liam lifts a curious brow, cocking his head. He’s already turning to Zayn and that fucking race of Zayn’s heart gets louder and louder when he tries to breathe.

“Abbu?” Liam asks, his tone thoughtful.

Zayn swallows, lowering his eyes. “It means father in – like, it’s another way of saying dad in Urdu,” he stammers, staring down at his hands.

They’re not shaking, he swears they’re not. But they’re not still either.

Liam’s too quiet across from him and all Zayn can hear is his blood in his ears before Caroline says, “Oh, well. Should probably get to the dishes, yeah? Don’t want to leave Brook at home with her pa too long, hmm?”

She shuffles off the couch, stepping over Zayn to gather things, and Louis takes a loud gulp of his wine.

“Smashed it there, Malik,” he mumbles and Zayn deflates for a moment before pushing off the couch.

He was wrong – London is the only place he wants to be right now.

 

##

 

He hides off in the one place he thinks best in: the back stairwell in his building.

Zayn leans over the metal railing, cigarette dangling between his middle and ring finger, his head bowed. He doesn’t need to look up to know where the scuff of Vans on the tiling comes from. He just exhales a bit of smoke and waits until Louis shoulders up to him.

“Alright, then?” Louis asks, his own cigarette already lit.

Zayn likes the scent of his cologne and the sharp blend of wine and nicotine on his clothes. He’s still more posh than anyone back in Wombourne, even though he’s nothing but some barely-buttoned Topman shirt and skinnies. Some gold watch with a big face covering some of his tattoos.

Louis is a miserable city lad by all definitions and Zayn has missed that.

“M’cool,” he lies, sniffing.

Louis tuts but doesn’t say much else. He just leans into Zayn, puffs on his Kool Blue while they count down their breaths.

“Had a word with him yet?” Louis wonders because he’s restless, always has been.

Zayn shrugs, letting the ash build up on his cigarette. “Bout what?”

“Oh, you know,” Louis sighs. “The fact that you’re _mad over him_ , you dick. Or that he’s ditching off soon.”

“He’s not ditching,” Zayn corrects, keeping his tone mild.

“Whatevs,” Louis scoffs, burning off another drag. “The lad is leaving, Zaynie. You got that part, right?”

“Crystal clear,” Zayn replies, shoulders tensing around his neck. He really doesn’t want to chat about it all but he knows Louis will be relentless and it’s better when Zayn has enough alcohol in his system to forget most of the conversation by morning.

He takes a quick puff, watching the way Louis rotates his own cigarette between his fingers. Restless git.

“So just gonna let him be off, then?”

“Can’t exactly step all on his dreams, bro.”

Louis laughs, a cloud of smoke fogging most of his condescending smirk. “Full of shit,” he hisses, elbowing Zayn pointedly in the ribs. “There’s loads of places here to get a proper job in music. Films are made here all the time. I bet me pops – “

Zayn raises an eyebrow and Louis immediately flips him off with a softer smile this time.

“He could find something in London.”

Zayn nods but it’s not very convincing, he knows. He sniffs again, exhaling smoke out of his nose. “Wouldn’t be fair,” he replies, blaming the smoke for the way his voice cracks. “I wasn’t in his plans and he wasn’t in mine.”

He can feel Louis glaring at him but he refuses to return the look. His lips wrap loosely around the filter to suck in some more smoke while he blinks down a few flights. There’s not much to look at but he pretends it’s enough to clear all of the fog in his head.

Zayn just needs a moment of _‘fuck it’_ to relax, he swears.

“This about Sammy, then?” Louis wonders in this sage voice that Zayn expects from Harry.

“Hmm?”

Louis nods, knocking a flick of ash off his cigarette. “Thought so. If he stays, Sammy’s gonna want him around? And you still think you’re shit at relationships, right? Gonna properly muck it up or maybe Liam’ll regret not taking a chance.”

( _Absolutely_.)

Zayn groans under his breath, twiddling his cigarette between his fingers. It’s like swallowing bile – the truth tastes so rank and vile when it involves Louis. He can be so smug and a right bastard about things, but this time –

Louis shrugs an arm around Zayn’s too tight shoulders, rubbing his nose to the buzzed hair just above Zayn’s ear. His exhale sounds like the ocean and Zayn’s a bit terrified.

“Do what’s best for Sammy,” he says, drawing back some when Zayn flinches, “but don’t forget about you, bro. Think Sam’s not the only one who’s gotten a bit attached here.”

 

##

 

(he wants to listen to Louis’ advice, he honestly does, but it doesn’t sink in quick enough and he starts to let the days drift into the Thames until the distance between him and Liam is unavoidable)

 

##

 

“You good?”

Liam sighs, his breath tickling up the nape of Zayn’s neck, his soft hands skimming slowly over Zayn’s bare hips.

“We don’t have to,” he starts, dropping his head until the tip of his nose smooshes to the bird inked high on Zayn’s spine. “We can talk? Or just watch a film. I’m not fully packed up, yet, and I’m just gonna go spend some time with my family for a week. My flight isn’t until – “

Zayn flinches roughly (a reaction that’s turning into a habit whenever someone brings up Liam leaving) before groaning. He grinds his bum to the semi Liam’s sporting in his jeans, already stripped off, leaning on the counter in the kitchen.

None of this is ideal – pulling off his clothes while Liam checked his messages or keeping a bottle of lube on the counter or avoiding the bedroom because _‘no, it’ll mean too much and this needs to_ hurt _like my fucking heart does’_ but Zayn’s not exactly huge on strategy for things like this.

Louis has taken Sameer down to Hyde Park for the day, some festival or another, and Zayn knows putting this off is bloody idiotic. He has a gallery show in a few days, Liam is catching a train up to Brighton for family time, and Zayn just needs him out.

(Out of his head and out of his flat and out of his bloody mucked up life –

But somehow, Zayn forgot about that heart-thing that keeps rattling restlessly in his ears.)

“I just want a cuddle,” Liam breathes to Zayn’s skin.

Zayn winces and he ought to say he wants the same thing but he slides right back into that armor he was so brilliant at wearing months ago.

“And I just want you to fuck me,” he hisses, twisting his head to steal a quick kiss off Liam’s lips. “And being that I’m naked and your dick is digging into me thigh, I think it’s appropriate.”

(He hates the way that word tastes now.)

He can almost pick apart the frown in his peripheral but it fades so quickly. Liam furrows his brow into a row of wrinkles, squeezing tight fingers around Zayn’s hip, shoving him forward.

“Fine,” he mumbles, tugging the zip of his flies down, letting the denim catch around his thighs. “Then I want to hear you, alright?”

Zayn hums his content, bowing forward a little while arching his spine. His legs spread to give Liam a proper view and he’s already slick between his cheeks, fingering himself off while waiting for Liam to knock at his door.

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Liam repeats, rougher.

Zayn licks at his lips, anticipation curling in his lungs. He’s already half-hard, leaking at the tip, this tension in his neck that he ignores. He can hear Liam slicking himself up, wonders how ruddy the head is or if all of those pretty veins are pulsing under the skin.

He folds his arms on top of each other, sighing. “C’mon now, Li, don’t hold back – “

“Didn’t plan on it,” Liam says, suddenly pressed along Zayn’s spine, his lips catching just behind Zayn’s ears. “Just wanted t’ know how bad y’ want my dick in you, ‘s all. Enough to just shut the fuck up and wait on it?”

Zayn trembles, teeth tearing at his lower lip. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

Zayn nods stiffly because he knows what Liam’s doing. He knows it’s just an act. He’s insufferable like that – still twisting around himself to please Zayn.

The slippery cockhead snubs over Zayn’s hole a few times. He can’t tell the difference between precome and lube but he likes the wet feel of it. The way it dribbles down his crack, to the soft skin behind his balls, catching in the hairs on the back of his thighs.

He leans towards Liam but Liam draws off, the bastard. His fingers dig into Zayn’s hip until he whines and there will be marks.

(Reminders, he thinks, poetic little red bruises that he _was_ Liam’s.)

“Y’ look a little desperate for it, mate,” Liam huffs, dragging his brow over the nape of Zayn’s neck, using a spare hand to spread Zayn open with his thumb and pinky. “Already open?”

Zayn breathes out raggedly, nodding. He doesn’t need words – they keep choking his air flow. His fingers bite into his palm and he wants to scream. He wants to bloody yell at Liam to _fuck him_ because, under all of the armor, he thinks it’s the one thing that’ll stop the distance.

A band-aid over a cracked dam, trying to hold back the flood.

“Wet for me like a proper tart,” Liam laughs, dark and breathy on Zayn’s spine. “Wanted to lick you ‘til you couldn’t take it.”

“Can still,” Zayn offers, his tone gone hard and scratchy.

“Nah,” Liam exhales, pressing the head to Zayn’s hole again. He clenches for it and Liam keeps teasing. “This should be about me, yeah? ‘m the one not gonna be ‘round. S’about that, innit?”

Zayn squeezes his eyes shut, his teeth finally breaking the skin of his lip. “No,” he spits out. It strips his lungs and Liam slips past the rim, fat head resting right there before he pops out.

“Alright, then.”

And Zayn thinks that’s it. Liam will finally just stomp out, jeans around his thighs, flipping Zayn off and getting on with his life.

(Because Zayn needs to get on with his, shit.)

But Liam drags the pad of this thumb over Zayn’s hole repeatedly, until his knees shake and there’s a proper film of sweat over his brow, breathing softly over Zayn’s neck.

“Just don’t,” he whispers, a shift in his voice that’s more of a wobble than anything else. “This better be for nowt, babe.”

Before Zayn can reply (or _breathe_ ), Liam shifts forward and inches in. He’s so slick and Zayn feels so open already, bearing down on his elbows over the counter, hissing at the pressure. He’s thick, like always, but Zayn’s muscles flutter around it. He fucking takes Liam in and feels a flame licking at his chest for too long until Liam’s all the way in.

Until Liam’s kissing words to the knobs on Zayn’s spine that he never wants to hear again.

“Good lad, good lad,” Liam mutters, drawing back, snapping forward. “So tight. Taking me better than ever.”

Zayn shifts onto his toes, letting the burn settle, pushing back onto Liam’s cock. He leans enough on his elbows to find an angle and – fuck.

Bloody fuck, Liam’s so deep and throbbing and it’s a _finally_.

(Just a breath of _‘you never have to leave’_ he’s unable to say out loud.)

Liam’s sticky hands find a place on Zayn’s hips, pulling him back onto his dick. It’s rough ( _like Zayn wanted_ ) and fast ( _like Zayn needed_ ). His knees knock against the cupboards and Liam’s hips pound against his bum until he’s certain he’ll be sore.

(The good and bad kind – the unforgettable kind.)

There’s nothing but huffs of breaths from Liam, whiny grunts like he’s been on edge since the moment he eased in. Zayn’s plump between his thighs, cock swinging like a see-saw. It smacks wetly on his belly and he thinks about pulling himself off.

But that means it would end and he’s just not ready for –

“Fuck,” Liam grunts into Zayn’s ear. “Squeezin’ all around me, babe.”

It’s involuntarily, the way Zayn’s muscles react. He’s holding Liam inside when he slips too far back. All of the tension in his thighs and forearms create this slow bonfire through his tendons.

“You’re fucking,” Zayn whimpers, dropping his head onto his forearms. “Get on with it, now. Don’t stop. Want your dick and your – “

“My what?” Liam challenges, his voice going rough once more.

Zayn hisses, shaking his head. Liam is a bloody menace like this and Zayn frets off that weak feeling in the pit of his stomach to focus on the star pulsing in his dick, precome spitting out the tip and slicking the floor in shiny strings.

“Say it.”

He gasps and forces his teeth down on his tongue to hold onto the words.

The stereo is on low, in the background, shouting silently at him with _‘oh I’m always home’_ and _‘I want a fuck and a fight’_ until he trembles, Liam shoving deep inside him.

“Say it, Zayn,” Liam demands, hips overworked and his breaths half-gasps. He steadies a gentle hand to Zayn’s hipbone, the other one climbing until it’s splayed across Zayn’s chest. “Just say it, babe.”

“Come,” Zayn stutters, shoulders growing tenser. “Want your come.”

Lips, pink and soft, drag over the space between his neck and shoulder. “Alright.”

The hand pulling at Zayn’s hip scrambles lower, pulling at Zayn’s dick. Liam lets Zayn push back onto his cock, grinding helplessly until Zayn is an absolute wreck. Just a mutter of breaths and moans, flexing all over Liam’s dick until the hand on his cock drags him close enough to finally shout.

“That’s it,” Liam encourages, keeping his voice low. “Let me hear you. Let me know you’re gonna come.”

“I’m gonna, ‘m gonna,” Zayn keens, shaking.

“Yeah, I can tell,” Liam moans, thumbing all over Zayn’s slippery tip. “You get so worked up when I’m inside you. Proper wet. S’like you just want – “

Zayn refuses to let Liam finish. He feels cored and his stomach clenches when he finally starts to pulse. Ripples of stringy come shooting off, his toes curling over the hardwood. This restless cocoon of oxygen in his chest keeping him on his feet while Liam crowds him all the way to the counter.

He feels it when Liam starts to spasm, rabbit fucking into Zayn too long afterwards. Wet lips on the shell of Zayn’s ear making promises Zayn can’t quite hear because –

His head is buried in his forearms and the ache inside of him isn’t from the shagging. He sniffs, something biting at his clenched eyes and, before he can think, he whispers an _‘I love you’_ to his forearm that he knows Liam never hears.

Zayn doesn’t repeat it, not when Liam’s getting dressed or when they hug for nearly an hour next to the door. The cotton on his shoulder is damp by the time Liam leaves and he knows why but he doesn’t comment.

He sprawls out on his stomach in the bed, half of his face in a pillow. Liam’s scent is still there. So is his Batman t-shirt in a corner of the room and his coffee cup on the nightstand and his toothbrush in the bathroom.

Every little thing like he’s coming back.

His phone buzzes for too long before Zayn finally checks it. A bloody picture of Liam, in his own bed, his face tilted sideways, bottom lip protruding like a damn puppy.

_‘i missssssss you!!!’_

There’s one of those fucking sad emoji faces attached and Zayn locks the screen before he can reply. He shoves it under a pile of pillows and closes his eyes. He can’t sleep

(not in London anymore and that’s dreadful)

but he keeps his eyes shut until Louis uses the spare key to let himself in.

Sameer launches into the bed, crawling under one of Zayn’s lazy arms, snuggling under Zayn’s armpit. Louis brings him curry and tea, perching on the edge of the bed. He makes a face at it all – like he can sniff out the scent of sex or the lube or Zayn’s pathetic broken heart kicked in the corner – before frowning gently at Zayn.

Zayn shuts his eyes again. “He’s gone now.”

Louis’ fingers scratch over his scalp and Zayn doesn’t move. He stays in a bed that doesn’t feel like his anymore with his son kipping under him and his best mate, for once, not saying a single word.

 

##

 

Harry pops into London for a meeting about a new photo collection and he practically shouts at Zayn for hours, via text, in these obvious messages, all capitalized:

_‘YOU + MOI = LUNCH’_

_‘TEA IS A MUST. H’_

Zayn ignores the other eight messages and texts Harry back a location, dredging out of bed on a bright Saturday with a twitchy smile when Harry replies with a photo of Big Ben.

They meet at Zayn’s favorite café while Caroline keeps Sameer and Harry whines about it nearly the entire time. There’s tea and bowls of Balti that Harry swoons over, curls pulled up into a knotty bun on his head, creamy skin tinged a little pink from the summer sun.

“Was looking forward to seeing the wee squirt,” he explains, voice dragging and deep, a pair of posh Aviators over his eyes. “I’ve learnt a whole class of sign language and stuff. Was gonna have a proper conversation.”

Zayn grins into his tea, imagining Harry hunched over a laptop, repeating different hand motions to some online instructor and scribbling down all the deep, philosophical quotes he’d love to express to Sameer. Even though he’s _five_ and won’t understand a single one of them.

Still, Harry’s that sort of lad, bloody genius.

“How’s Nialler?” Zayn asks, instead of letting Harry go on about it.

Harry scrunches his face a bit, rolling his eyes. “Being an absolute dick about my decorating ideas,” he sighs, lowering his cup. “We’re looking for a house. A proper home and stuff.”

“Together,” Zayn inserts with the fond smile he learned from watching Harry. “Sounds ace, mate.”

Harry shrugs, looking put out trying to hide his grin and blush. “Not if he keeps wanting a basement for a game room and all I want is a proper picture window and a flowerbed. It’s the ideal necessities for home, innit?”

Zayn snorts, leaning back. “S’ppose so.”

Harry nods quickly, looking a bit prim and proud. He lowers his sunglasses, letting them hang loose from the stretched collar of his shirt before leaning on the table.

“Can’t say I could imagine my life without the prick, though,” he admits, his voice honest.

Zayn chews at his lip to subdue his grin. “Couldn’t see you two with anyone else, bro.”

Harry flushes at the comment, averting his eyes but his dimples etch into his cheeks. He fiddles with his camera, a vintage Polaroid this time, before glancing up.

Zayn raises his eyebrows at him. “Vas happenin’ dude?”

Harry shrugs, shaking his head. “Nothing.”

“Nothing,” Zayn repeats, doubtful with the way Harry’s lips flinch into a grin. He sighs contently, though, watching the sun crease across the city. “Still not the place for you?”

“London?” Harry wonders, sounding distracted. “Not really. Too crowded. Too busy. Ni loves it though.”

“Yeah,” Zayn breathes, taking to his tea once more. “It is – well.”

He doesn’t say anything else but he thinks Harry knows. This place was never really a home.

“You know,” Harry starts in that voice that feels predictable so Zayn slouches lazily in his chair, waiting, “you could ask him to stay. He’s considering it. There’s this apprenticeship thing at some London studio. Film work and a studio that works out of Wolverhampton. An old mate of his dad gave him a ring.”

Zayn taps his fingers mindlessly on the table. He watches the sun burst over Hyde Park, one of those bright summer days where the world is languid and the sky is clear. It’s a brilliant distraction to all of Harry’s words.

He hasn’t talked to Liam since he left for Brighton. Not a text or a voicemail. Nothing. It made it easier after the third day, he thinks, but Liam hasn’t attempted to ring him either so maybe that’s something.

(maybe that’s an _‘it’s over’_ that he doesn’t have to say out loud; Liam’s said it for him)

“You could convince him, Zayner,” Harry insists, kicking Zayn under the table.

Zayn kicks back, scowling. He _can’t_. It wouldn’t work – he’s not stomping on a dream like the world has done his.

Luckily, he’s spared an explanation when, out of nowhere, Louis pops in. He drops down into the empty chair next to Zayn, grinning, running his eyes over Harry suspiciously for a moment.

“How’d you – “

Louis waves Zayn off, leaning towards Harry with a flirty grin. “Have we fucked before?”

Zayn chokes on his tea, elbowing Louis, but Harry just shoots him an amused expression. He wiggles his eyebrows, exhaling easily. He’s unaffected by Louis’ stares and Zayn thinks Harry might be his favorite person ever.

“Have you ever been to Wombourne?”

“What the fuck is that?” Louis snaps, looking affronted.

Harry leans back with a laugh, shaking his head. “Then, no.”

Louis scoffs and Zayn buries a giggle in his palm. “That’s Harry. One of Liam’s best mates.”

“Oh,” Louis coos, stealing Zayn’s tea. He makes a face at the taste, shoving it back. “Aces, then. Come by to get this prick to finally chase after that bloody bastard he’s sporting a stiffy over all day? It’d make me life so much easier.”

Harry chuckles softly, wiggling his eyebrows at Zayn this time, nudging him under the table without blurting out the _‘I told you so’_ he looks ready to shout. Zayn sulks, throwing his hands up. Obviously, the entire world fancies making him feel like shit, even his friends.

 

##

 

“Shouldn’t you be downstairs being a proper host?” Simon asks from the doorway.

Zayn looks up from his desk, rubbing sleepily at his eyes. The whole room is cast in shadows and there’s only a pale strip of purple moonlight striking a glow around his desk. His tailored dress shirt is mostly wrinkled with a few charcoal stains around the sleeves and, bless, Caroline will probably murder him over it when she sees. He’s been avoiding the gallery showcase downstairs for an hour, ducking off in his office, finishing off an earlier drawing.

He’s not expecting Simon to be the one to track him down.

His fingers smudge absently leftover bits of charcoal over the bottom of the page to clean them off. He sniffs, sucking in his bottom lip. He feels like a child caught staying up at Christmas by his father. It makes him tighten a little but Simon smiles lethargically before entering.

“I couldn’t,” Zayn scrambles but he can’t put together a lie at the moment.

Simon waves him off, studying all of the pieces Zayn isn’t featuring in the showcase. Then his hands pick through some of Zayn’s stuff on the settee, unfinished pieces he told Caroline to stow away.

“Another brilliant job down there,” Simon remarks, still flipping through the drawings. “Devine’s stuff is selling well, which, I reckon that means your cut will be sufficient?”

Zayn gives a mild shrug. It’ll be decent, he thinks, but he’s still quite a few pounds short of –

He doesn’t know. He spends more nights moving aimlessly through his flat like a zombie rather than researching more local doctors or the NHS.

His tongue flicks out to wet his lips. He knocks his sketch away, brushing silver fingers over his buzzed hair.

“You’re fantastic at your job, Malik,” Simon continues, dropping the sketches into a pile. “But if I’m being honest, this is where you really turn a profit.” He’s tapping at Zayn’s drawings, smirking, eyebrows scrunched like he’s plotting world domination but just not telling Zayn about it.

(Admittedly, Zayn’s seen the same look on Louis’ face a dozen times before but he never mentions it to either of them – two flawed men trying to outdo the other.)

Zayn leans back in his chair, feeling nervous. Simon doesn’t droll out praise without warrant (or a profitable plan).

“Had a few interesting chats recently,” Simons says with a casual shrug, walking away. “Your boy, Sammy?”

His spine goes stiff in his chair but Zayn tries to look composed.

Simon flashes him a pitying smile over his shoulder. “Surgery, yes? You want to help him hear again?”

Zayn swallows around a breath, nodding gently while his fingers wring together under his desk.

“Yes, well, I’ve sorted out how important all of this is for you and you’re a good lad, Zayn, honestly,” Simon says, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets, rocking on his heels. “I’ve a _‘thank you’_ of sorts, I s’ppose. Made a few calls and, well, it’s all sorted. Check with my assistant in the morning for the details.”

“Details?” Zayn chokes out because he’s fair at reading between Cowell’s words but –

Simon grins. “Yes. All paid for, Zayn. Aftercare as well.”

There’s a hollow gasp that burns all the way up Zayn’s throat. He goes slack in his chair, exhaustion finally beaten away by shock. He keeps his bottom lip pinned down as Simon moves towards the door.

“I’ve never exactly done right by my own boy,” he says, losing some of that casualness. He blinks at the floor, schooling away that defeated look that stammers into his expression. “Lou. Never got any of that right. I reckon it’s time I let someone else fix what I broke.”

He’s off before Zayn can look up again. Down the long hall, to the lifts, humming to himself.

Zayn leans back in his chair, exhaling hard. There’s a sting at his eyelids but, for once, it’s not out of regret or disappointment.

It’s _relief_. A win he never anticipated. It rushes all through his system like a spark turning into a wildfire.

“Thank you.”

 

##

 

For hours, afterwards, he can’t stay still in the gallery or look anyone in the eye for too long without smiling. He stays stitched to Louis’ side, never explaining a thing, just sharing flutes of champagne while wandering through the gallery until it’s too late to fuck about.

He wants to ring Liam, out of instinct, but he doesn’t. He stares absently at the door to the toilets at the back of the gallery, grinning a little too fondly, before letting Louis drag him off to the cabs outside.

The battery on his mobile dies while he waits for a brilliant enough reason not to text Liam three words he can’t stop thinking about.

( _almost_ – but not yet.)

 

##

 

His bedroom is lit by the morning sun and it looks like softly spun cotton candy against his vision. All gold and warm, the start of an August morning.

It’s too early when he leans up against the headboard with a dry mouth and tight muscles when he stretches. The thump of Sameer’s feet forces him to blink open his eyes, lips smoothing up into a massive smile. He exhales a yawn while Sameer crawls up on the bed, kneeing his way over to Zayn, settling down under the duvet.

Zayn blinks away the haze from his vision before carding long fingers into Sameer’s sloppy hair.

 _‘Brush your teeth?’_ he signs.

Sameer sighs happily, nodding. He sits up a bit more, tugging on his Spider-Man pajamas to show off all the foamy white stains leftover from his battle with his toothbrush.

Zayn giggles, thumbing a smudge from the corner of Sameer’s mouth.

The blanket of sun stretches over them until they’re gold, sleep-warm bodies caught on fire.

He waits until Sameer is settled, blinking up at him. His teeth bite anxiously over his chapped bottom lip and something large, uncomfortable like a beast has been sitting in his chest for too long now. Since chatting with Simon, actually. He wants it out. And Sameer is so aware, cocking his head to the side, raising fuzzy eyebrows at him.

Zayn tugs at a piece of his bottom lip with his teeth before lifting his hands. _‘There’s a thing that the doctor can do to help you hear,’_ he signs with shaking fingers.

(He’s been going over this in his mind, a dozen times an hour, too many nights while Sameer slept. Ways to make it all seem simple because Sameer is still too young to understand why most of his classmates can hear and he can’t, but – )

 _‘It won’t hurt,’_ he signs when Sameer starts to look anxious. _‘It’s a small thing for your ear,’_ he adds, reaching out to tap a space just behind one of Sameer’s ear. _‘You can hear your mates or me. You can hear_ me, _Sammy.’_

Sameer leans back, rubbing his hands over his thighs. His lips twitch into a pucker, a shallow frown.

(It’s tight, tight in Zayn’s chest and he feels the lightning between his lungs again)

A small, pink tongue runs over Sameer’s lips. _‘I’m broken?’_

And its right there – the hollow rhythm of Zayn’s heart and all of Liam’s words in the back of his mind –

Sameer is normal. He is different and that’s, well, it’s alright.

Zayn drags a hand down his face, thumbing on the smile that shifts so easily over his lips. He leans in, pressing his forehead to Sameer’s, shaking his head. He pecks a kiss to the tip of Sameer’s nose before drawing off.

_‘No. You are perfect. Beautiful.’_

Sameer exhales hard before nodding. His cheeks bunch up while he wiggles his toes under the duvet.

 _‘I can be like you? I can hear baba?’_ Sameer signs, struggling with his words, biting over his lips like he’s thinking through it all. His eyebrows come together, his pout a cherry color.

Zayn shrugs, snorting. _‘I want you happy. I love you.’_

Sameer rolls his eyes, giggling into his hand. _‘Love you too, baba.’_

He can’t quite help himself – Zayn tugs Sameer in, laughing into his hair, settling a large hand over his small spine. He can feel Sameer breathing over his bare chest in soft spurts while the sun floods everything like an eruption of gold glitter.

Sameer huffs, squirming out of Zayn’s cuddle. His brow is wrinkled once more, like he’s _thinking_ , his tongue hanging out a corner of his mouth. It’s endearing and Zayn relaxes into each of his breaths now.

 _‘I miss abbu,’_ Sameer signs. He looks small, unsure, sitting on his knees and blinking large eyes at Zayn.

Zayn flits his eyes downward, sucking in his lower lip. Guilt crawls into his chest (not for the first time) because he hasn’t explained any of this to Sameer. He keeps avoiding when Sameer asks about Liam’s whereabouts or going to visit him.

One of Liam’s shirts is crumpled at the end of the bed, a pair of his trainers in the corner, his scent already faded from Zayn’s sheets and pillows. A bottle of coconut shampoo, half-empty because Zayn uses it now, is sat next to orangey-ginger bubble bath on the sink.

A Batman mug still sits next to the kettle in the kitchen where Liam left it –

Where Zayn left is bloody useless heart.

 _‘I miss Loki too, baba!’_ Sameer signs, excitedly. He pouts with a crumpled face.

Zayn swallows, brushing back Sameer’s soft curls, cupping the back of his skull. The morning doesn’t feel as warm anymore but, well, it hasn’t felt quite as bright since he stopped waking up to cuddles from Sameer and Liam in an oversized house in a small village anyway.

He stretches over the bed, grabbing his mobile, pulling Sameer back down next to him. He thumbs over the lock screen, his heart jumping instantly into his throat because this is a _dreadful_ idea.

Honestly, he’s a bloody git for still having this video saved but he queues it up with a shaking hand, holding the phone out for Sameer to watch.

It’s a noisy, shaky video. The sun is too bright in the background, morphing the colors but the distinct sound of Liam’s giggle colliding with Sameer’s is sort of brilliant. Sameer scrambling all over a green, green backyard with Loki chasing him, Liam not far behind. Rolling around in the grass, hopping all over each other with a pack of wolf cubs.

Sameer burying his face in the crook of Liam’s neck the way Liam always does to Zayn.

Its short and the chill down Zayn’s spine at his own laugh in the background before it cuts off makes him want to box up all of Liam’s things, toss them into the bin.

(to make every little bit of Liam go away so he can _breathe_ )

Sameer keeps tapping the phone, putting the video on repeat, laughing along until he’s trembling. Cocking up his chin to look at Zayn after every loop. Zayn flashes him a put upon smile each time, holding his breath until his lungs catch fire.

 _‘Baba,’_ Sameer signs after awhile. They’re both slouching against the headboard, letting the morning turn into a lazy afternoon. _‘Will you be with me? With the doctor?’_

Zayn smiles. He gives a short nod while his throat tightens up.

Sameer sighs, pressing his head into the space under Zayn’s arm. Small fingers trace the heart on Zayn’s hip.

Zayn rubs at Sameer’s belly until he feels his son relax. He doesn’t bother Sameer with it anymore after that. He knows it’s too much to ask – making Sameer choose. He doesn’t want him to think it over, too young and too scared to understand all of it. It’s not fair.

His tongue flicks out to wet his lips while Sameer starts to drift off to sleep. And all Zayn can do is _think_ –

All he can do is listen to the city outside and the pathetic heart behind his chest aching for a five year old and a boy he doesn’t have the courage to ring up anymore.

 

##

 

It’s all settled and taken care of, like Simon promised, but Zayn can’t seem to sort himself out.

The doctors are all nice and speak slowly until Zayn understand all of the procedures, the instruments, the jargon he’s read enough times to know by heart. The nurses let Zayn cuddle with Sameer after they shave his head and Zayn snuggles his face into the crook of Sameer’s neck for a few selfies he sends off to his mum and sisters.

_‘Look! TWINS! ;) x’_

Still, there’s a large knot in his stomach he can’t untangle and his hands are still shaking, even after Sameer was rolled away, too drowsy from the anesthesia to squeeze Zayn’s hand back before he was on the lifts. He hates the way his eyelashes stick together from the unshed tears.

He hates staring at those closed metal doors for too long before dragging himself to the waiting rooms.

There’s too much energy under his skin on a breezy Wednesday stricken grey by evening rain.

By night, when the city goes silent except for the rain, Louis is well knackered. He’s curled uncomfortably in a stiff chair outside of Sameer’s room, shaking out of his sleep every few breaths before falling right back into it. Wrinkled half-suit and kicked off Vans, the kind of sight that amuses Zayn just a little.

Zayn busies himself with his Beats, pacing back and forth in the dim hallway to Wiz Khalifa or something Harry downloaded onto his iTunes. He drains cardboard cup after cup of domestic coffee instead of ploughing through his pack of Marlboros ( _he’s quit,_ mostly, for Sameer), the tart taste of a black brew keeping some of his energy in check.

But he keeps feeling those wired nerves ping-ponging through his veins. Jittery hands and trainers squeaking all over the floor. The desk nurses keep shooting him friendly smiles but glaring at him when they think he’s not looking –

It’s been a whole two hours and Sameer isn’t awake. He was wheeled into his room, eyelashes fluttering like the waking wings of a hummingbird, his skin a little paler. Asleep. _Alive but in dreams_ , he thinks.

So Zayn keeps pacing, wearing a shapeless hole into the ground while Louis snores to the side.

His eyes are lowered, swiping through another one of Harry’s Fleetwood Mac collections, when he thumps into someone. He swears it’s another nurse and his lips are half wrapped around an apology when he looks up –

That smile is still a sugary pink like he remembers, plush bottom lip and thick stubble on his jaw. His hair is a soft, damp texture from the rain. Flecks of raindrops darken his hoodie, trainers squeaking wetly on the ground. Tan skin and crinkled eyes and –

“Liam,” Zayn breathes, still a little startled.

A familiar hand grabs his hip, steadies him. “Hey,” Liam says, losing a little of his smile on Zayn’s wide eyes. “Alright, then?”

He thinks it’s the bite of something enormous under his skin or the ache in his jaw from holding his words, maybe it’s just the way he’s a tad winded from knocking against all of Liam’s muscle and strong frame but –

Zayn finally exhales and all of that nervous energy stops colliding.

Liam tilts his head, slipping a hand over Zayn’s cheek, thumbing the corner of his mouth. He grins, dopey and big, something Zayn’s always hated in other lads. But not with Liam.

“How d’ya know – “

A breathy laugh slides past Liam’s teeth. “I might’ve asked about,” he admits, nervously biting his lower lip. Crinkles start to set around his eyes. “All the way at me parents’ house. Couldn’t help it and Niall, bless him, couldn’t keep quiet once Hazza told him about it.”

Zayn nods, shifting his eyes down. Unconsciously, he thinks he told Harry so that Liam might find out. Just for, well, he doesn’t know why.

“So, asking after me now?” Zayn teases just for the way Liam’s cheeks instantly color.

Liam shrugs and giggles all at once. He presses in just a foot more, rubbing at Zayn’s hip.

When there’s enough oxygen in Zayn’s lungs, he sighs, fumbling out, “I thought you had already left.”

It feels weighted, the words, but he doesn’t regret them when he blinks up and finds something unevenly bright in Liam’s eyes. He’s expecting awkward and Liam gives him honesty.

“Couldn’t just yet,” Liam says, slow like he’s feeling out every letter, “Not until I know Sammy’s alright, I reckon.”

Zayn gives a short nod because it’s reasonable. He can’t argue it. There was never a proper farewell between Liam and Sammy. It’s fair.

(Except, he wants to shout that he’s not alright and he’s more than a little _lost_ now that Liam’s not around.

Or that he’s an absolute idiot for ever thinking he’d tire of the taste of Liam’s name on his tongue.)

He shuffles away some, clearing his throat, watching Liam out the corner of his eye. Liam deflates a little before pocketing his hands, wandering around Zayn towards Sameer’s closed door. A large hand presses to the glass, fingers squeaking over it.

“I keep thinking,” Zayn swallows, scooting closer to Liam. “I shouldn’t’ve. Should’ve left him be. He would’ve been just fine, y’know? Think it’s a bit unnatural?”

Liam’s smile reflects off the glass. A blind hand reaches back, fingers looping into the waist of Zayn’s jeans. It’s not a forceful tug but it’s enough to set Zayn off balance.

“He won’t hate you,” Liam swears. He finds a way to steady Zayn again, hips pressed together, just outside of Sameer’s door. “Sammy has always been normal. A bit – “

“Different,” Zayn offers, smiling around the word.

“Good choice,” Liam nods, biting at his own grin. “Always gonna be the kid that stands out for some reason. And he won’t ever properly hear the world like you. Like the other kids.”

It stings, it does, but Zayn buckles down for it. He blinks at the closed blinds on the door and focuses on the way Liam’s fingers sneak under his shirt to find skin.

“But he’ll _feel_ more than any other kid out there,” Liam continues, quieter. “He’ll love you better than anyone you’ll know.”

Zayn exhales. “Anyone?”

It’s a trick, Zayn knows it, but it falters a crooked smile over Liam’s lips. He bumps his hip to Zayn’s like _‘shut it’_ before nodding. “But it’s fair to say I’ll be a close second, alright?”

He flushes immediately but Zayn gives Liam a gentle nod. He curls an arm around Liam’s spine, finding spaces between his ribs for his fingers to rest. It’s honestly not where or how he expected either of them to use three overrated words

(maybe in that bed in Wombourne or at a café across from Hyde Park or in the middle of a rainstorm in some dramatic rendition of that silly scene from _the Notebook_ but – )

Zayn still smiles at it. He feels his heart swell like a fucking monster rattling out of a cage and watches the glass with Liam. Not another word between them as the rain picks up outside.

They wait silently.

(Even though he wants a cigarette and is quite knackered, he won’t complain about it at all.)

 

##

 

It’s half ten, the whole sky outside a pitch black, when the nurse escorted them inside. The room was a dull fluorescent star of light, a fuzzy white glow over the bed where Sameer was propped up munching on rocky ice given to him by another nurse.

His eyes are stilled rimmed dark when he blinks out at them like a cartoonish owl. Dilated masses of dark brown trying to hold a focus until they get closer, dry pink lips hitching up into a desperate smile.

“There’s a boy,” Liam smiles, fingers inching up the scratchy blanket.

Zayn grins, dragging the heft of his palm across his son’s buzzed scalp.

Sammy mumbles softly, his tongue still too heavy, a disappointed sigh flitting past his lips. He presses back into the pillows, looking restless, before slowly signing at Liam, _‘Abbu.’_

Liam blinks for a half-dozen beats before his lips stretch pink and wide. Cautiously, he signs back, _‘Beta.’_

Zayn’s thumb catches on the prickles of Sameer’s buzz and something stops-starts in his heart the moment he and Liam trade looks across the bed. Something big and nameless but it feels –

It’s appropriate.

The nurses giggle while moving around all of the machines, pushing away Sameer’s eating tray to make room for Zayn and Liam to flank him on either side of the bed. It’s uncomfortable, Liam’s legs dangling off the side and the rail pushing into Zayn’s spine, but they settle into a careful cuddle while the doctor goes over all of the post-care.

“We’ll let him rest and heal for about a month,” Dr. Haynes, with her butterscotch hair and massive blue eyes, explains while smiling down at Sameer. “He’s a tough one – “

“Like the Hulk,” Liam whispers over Sameer’s head.

Zayn grins lazily.

“ – but we still need him to be careful. Watch his incision, please,” she continues, leaning back on her heels. “I know lads will be lads, but – no playing superhero for at least a week, alright?”

Sameer’s drowsy, yawning every other word, nuzzling into Liam’s side while fisting his small fingers into Zayn’s shirt.

All of the monitors beep in the background, Sameer finally blinking his eyes closed. “In a month, we’ll activate the implant,” she adds, softer. “Just give him a bit t’ rest and you can take ‘im home – “

Zayn clears his throat, looking down instead of in Liam’s eyes. “To me flat.”

(Because it’s not a _home, home, home_ any more than it was months ago.)

“Right,” she chirps, smiling. “He’ll most likely want you both there until the medicine wears off, if you – “

He feels apprehension coil tight around his lungs and Zayn’s next breath comes out shaky. His fingers curl around Sameer’s small head, blinking down at the IV line inserted into his arm and the bracelet around his frail wrist.

Anything other than Liam.

“Um, you’ve got t’ go, right? Early flight and stuff,” he shrugs, looking at the duvet but his words are for Liam.

Thick fingers surf over the ripples in the duvet, the shape of Sameer’s legs, curling around Zayn’s intently.

“I’m not leaving,” Liam says, shy like that first day, Zayn lifting his eyes enough to watch his plush mouth. “Not ‘til I know Sammy is alright.”

Zayn’s brow slopes downward, wrinkling. He can hear the doctor’s shoes over the floor as she walks out and, with a hollow softness, Liam adds, “That could take _years_ , y’know.”

His fingers fiddle enthusiastically around Zayn’s until Zayn lifts his whole head to stare at Liam, wide-eyed and startled. Liam grins like mad, crooked and massive like always. He scoots in closer, nudging Sameer into his lap until they’re a breath from each other, foreheads skimming.

“I wanted to ask you to stay,” Zayn blurts out because he’s bloody _ridiculous_ and decided to finally find a bit of bravery.

“I know,” Liam grins, their noses brushing. “You’re not very good with your words or getting them out, Zayn.”

Zayn tuts, looking incredulous and embarrassed all at once. His cheeks burn until he can’t look away from those laughter lines around Liam’s eyes. Or the freckles across his nose. Or the pink tongue peeking from behind his teeth.

Liam laughs in this way that comes out contagious, the noise tickling through Zayn until he can’t help it.

They hiccup and giggle and settle on the uncomfortably small bed with Sameer sprawled across them.

And when they go quiet, they sigh in unison, words catching sharp on Zayn’s tongue until he thinks to whisper

( _not yet_ )

but, instead, he signs _‘I love you,’_ for Liam to watch with huge, affectionate eyes.

He’s shameless when Liam snuffs in to kiss him because, well, all of this feels a bit _appropriate_ , right?

 

##

 

“Are you ready?” Dr. Haynes asks, her candy pink smile stretched.

Zayn can feel the adrenaline all the way to his fingertips, the sharp ache like frostbite. His knee is bouncing habitually while in the cushiony chair, Sameer sat in his lap, coloring neatly. His heart is orbiting somewhere in his chest and his tongue keeps flicking out to wet his lips (another awful habit, he thinks).

Liam is across from him, crooked grin and crinkled eyes, pointing the camera from his mobile at them. Zayn pleaded off Liam recording this but –

Liam is an absolute bugger for moments like this – like one of those silly dads at Christmas pageants, videoing his children in the school production of _Grease_ or summat.

(Liam is like a father. A massively goofy, daft, proud father.)

(In the center of Zayn’s chest, something tightens like a wire.)

There’s a few nurses bustling around them, checking equipment, securing the processor with a magnet to Sameer’s head. They’re careful with their hands, grinning when Sameer becomes a little distracted by everything.

Caroline is opposite them, wringing her hands together in anticipation. Zayn can see it in her shoulders, the twitch of her smile, fluttering eyelashes – she’s not as well off disguising her nerves like Zayn.

(Like he’s _trying_ to be.)

There’s sweat along the palm of his hand as he drags it across the back of Sameer’s head, careful of the wire. His hair is growing in a little, still a slightly clipped version but soft, baby curls are there under his fingertips. It’s a brilliant feeling – like when he was a toddler.

“Alright, we’re set,” Dr. Haynes grins. “It’s coming on so, _dad_ – “

Zayn’s head jerks up a bit and, in the corner of his eye, he sees Liam stiffen like she’s talking to _him_ instead –

(Tighter, tighter, the wire in his chest like a bind around his heart)

“Say something for Sammy,” she instructs.

Unconsciously, Zayn’s breath hitches loudly. He has an arm curled around Sameer’s belly and his tongue goes a little numb when Sameer tilts back to look up at him. In the mirror of his bathroom, he’s practiced this moment. His first words for Sameer to hear. An entire speech and a dozen different ideas and now –

Zayn smiles softly while Sameer squirms a little.

“Hey, babe,” he stutters out, his voice clenched like a first while he shakily signs the words – just in case this all goes wrong (he hopes, he hopes, he hopes he’s wrong). “It’s baba. Can ya hear me?”

Sameer’s dark eyelashes, thick and feathery, beat like the wings of a young hummingbird before he coos. He trembles, shocked, before he grins like that first time he tasted a snowflake. The first time Zayn tickled his fingers over his infant belly to make him laugh.

“Y’can hear me?” Zayn stammers, lips faltering into a wrinkled grin. “Babe?”

Tiny hands clap together, excitedly. Sameer wiggles in his lap, covering his mouth with a hand to cover a noise. Huge coffee dark eyes stare at Zayn while his cheeks pulse pink.

“He can hear you,” Dr. Haynes smirks.

“Look at him,” Liam whispers, sounding more awed than Zayn thinks he’s ever heard.

“Bless,” Caroline sighs and Zayn can hear the tears in her voice. “Bloody miracles.”

“Hey, babe,” Zayn repeats just for the reaction Sameer gives, the way he instantly goes to sign, _‘baba,’_ with shaking hands.

Zayn nods jerkily and, in the mirror, he didn’t practice this part –

The flush of his cheeks or those prickling little shards of tears at the corner of his eyes. The impulsive pound of his heart, snapping all of the wires off like the Hulk breaking free of Bruce Banner.

“Just gonna adjust the volume. We’re still monitoring it to get it right so, please, keep talking,” Dr. Haynes says, her mouth tilted a little smug. This little cloud of pride right along her lips.

“Oh, um, I dunno,” Zayn swallows, still fascinated by the way Sameer keeps watching him for another word. Another breath. Just a noise.

“Wow,” Liam gasps, edging around the table, closer with his mobile tilted awkwardly like he’s only half-interested in videoing this.

Thick fingers stretch to brush Sameer’s cheek and Sameer wriggles around to blink up at Liam.

“Hey, beta,” Liam smirks, his voice caught on a breath while he signs. “Alright?”

Sameer moans again, clapping. Tiny little fingers reaching out towards Liam like _‘come closer’_ and Liam, the dopey abbu –

( _He’s a father, he’s a dad, he’s all Sameer’s_ – )

stumbles up until he can nuzzle his nose to Sameer’s. “Look at you, Hulk. Y’ can hear everything now, can’t ya?”

“Almost,” Dr. Haynes sighs happily, leaning back. “It’s going to take a lot of adjusting as I’ve said before. Loads of therapy. He’ll need work with his speech and adjusting to what words sound like. His brain needs to adapt.”

Zayn leans around Liam and Sameer to listen, nodding along.

He spots Caroline scribbling down notes for Mary because she’s volunteered to assist them with all of this – the speech therapy and helping Sameer adjust. Caroline notes all of the fancy words Dr. Haynes uses, her brow furrowed in concentration. She scratches through _‘audiologist’_ three times before sighing out her frustration. Zayn giggles into his shoulder.

“He’s going to need patience,” Dr. Haynes says gently. She half-turns to Caroline, flicking up an eyebrow, asking, “You lot have someone accompanying them I’m told?”

Caroline nods, beaming, eyeliner smudged. “A certified teacher. She’ll be there for care and support. She’ll stick ‘round long as this lot needs.”

“Long as she doesn’t take the piss at all me art projects,” Liam teases and Caroline waves him off with one of those motherly giggles that reminds Zayn so much of his own mum.

“Loads of visits back to London, you two,” Dr. Haynes warn, her voice hardly stern when she smiles at Zayn and Liam. “I’ll want as many check-ups as possible for the next year or two.”

In the background, he can still hear Dr. Haynes listing off suggestions and aftercare procedures but, for a moment, Zayn loses focus. He studies the sound of Sameer’s giggle, softer and muffled behind his hand, embarrassed by the noise of it all.

( _he can hear it, he can hear it, he can hear it_ )

Liam is still nuzzled in close, making faces, little grunts until Sameer squirms with excitement. He keeps talking, pointing at Sameer’s drawing, listing off colors repeatedly until Sameer is overwhelmed.

One of Liam’s hands slides over Zayn’s knee, squeezing, and it’s then that Zayn realizes it’s stopped jumping. A small touch, a warm palm, just Liam calms it all.

(it’s not _different_ or _inappropriate_ – it tastes like _extraordinary_ now and, yeah, that’s a good word for it all)

 

##

 

“You look well pathetic, Malik,” Louis grins, perched on the bonnet of Liam’s truck in the car park outside of the hospital. His lips twitch higher, eyeing Liam and Zayn holding Sameer’s hands as they walk. “A right family man, I reckon.”

“Shut it,” Zayn smiles. “Me son can hear you now. Be good.”

Louis’ lips slide softer, his head tilted to look on Sameer. “Imagine that,” he huffs, giving Sameer a tiny wave.

Liam’s lips cock up into a smile as he tugs open the back door, helping Sameer inside. Louis hops down, curving around the front to curl a rough arm around Zayn’s neck, pulling him in.

“You’re shit. A bloody _tit_ , if I’m being honest,” Louis says in that overly-fond way he gets when he’s high or trying to avoid his emotions. “Leaving me behind and stuff. Bros don’t do that. We’re s’ppose to own this city, lad.”

Zayn grins into Louis’ neck, sniffing at his sharp cologne and the remnants of his last cigarette.

“Gonna pop in for a visit?”

Louis makes an offended face, laughing. “To that shit town – “

“Oi,” Liam whines, reaching from the truck to swat at Louis’ bum. “It’s me home.”

“Whatevs,” Louis shrugs. “Not a chance, Zaynie. I’m a London lad, y’know that. This bloody city would be shit without me.”

Zayn rolls his eyes but he knows it. It’s all Louis knows. Its all, Zayn thinks, he ever really knew. This bright city and that comfortable flat and Sameer eating cereals in the morning while Zayn watched the world blur around him.

(before that silly art teacher who knew nothing but music and insomnia)

Zayn sucks in a quick breath, carding his fingers through Louis’ shagged out hair.

“Gonna be a bit weird, innit?” Zayn asks, looking up at the cottony blue sky.

“Without you ‘round?” Louis wonders. “Nah. I’ve still got Caroline. Loads of money thanks to that asshole _dad_ – “

“Step-dad,” Zayn smiles.

Louis shrugs a little less casual this time. “He’s me dad. Only thing I’ve really known of one, least. He’ll do.”

There’s a hint of something genuine under Louis’ defiant grin and Zayn’s certain that, just maybe, they’re all a bit different now.

“Doesn’t mean I don’t wan’ you to bring your skinny arse up here to see me,” Louis warns, eyebrows set into a scowl, all the sternness Louis can muster shifted into his voice. “I expect, now that Simon’s given you the chance, to see loads of updates on your artwork, bro. Instagram pics or summat. I want t’ be first in line at your first showing.”

A stain of dull pink slides over Zayn’s cheeks when he ducks his head. He gives Louis a stiff nod, like _‘okay’_ and _‘wouldn’t do it without you’_ that he can’t say.

Instead, he hugs Louis a little tighter while they watch the sky bloom. It’s not an alleyway, sharing cigarettes, bantering about one-offs or how dead this city is but –

It’s _them_ , no questions asked.

“Alright, enough pouting about,” Louis sighs. He half-turns away and Zayn swears the back of his wrist drags over his eyes when he sniffs. There’s angry red lines in his glassy eyes when he cocks his head at Zayn and, yeah, they’re two bloody inseparable idiots.

“Off with ya,” Zayn laughs, shoving at Louis but his fingers tighten in Louis’ denim jacket to haul him in for another back-clapping, _hold your breath_ sort of hug.

(Louis is Johnny Storm and Zayn, when he finally lets go, feels like he’s on fire.)

 

##

 

Zayn loves the quiet now.

The rough clouds overhead as they drive and the city turning ash and grey in the rearview. The peel of a bright sun ahead of them, the road cast in gold like it’s about to burn up. Gravel under the tires and the stereo on low, Liam’s humming a little distracting when Zayn stops paying attention to all of the motorway markers.

He can _‘feel’_ every bit of it all – curled in the passenger seat, his elbow propped in the window, a spare hand lingering on the dash, Liam’s fingers curled around it.

Sammy’s in the backseat, a small hand pressed to one of the speakers even though he can hear every soft breath of James Vincent McMorrow’s voice. Every line of _‘I wasn’t afforded a love covered up in hard earned clay’_ but Sameer keeps touching the speaker to feel it all.

(Like he’s still adjusting but still not willing to let that part of himself go. Zayn thinks, unconsciously, Liam will never let Sammy forget that part either.)

Liam’s fingers drum on the wheel, lips curved into one of those dopey smiles he always wears. Round cheeks pushing at his eyes, laughter lines everywhere. It’s difficult not to stare but Zayn manages because –

He thinks he has all of his life to do that now.

“Gonna be a bit weird doing music in Wolverhampton,” he mentions, eyes on the road. “Trips up to London on the weekend sometimes. Like, it’ll be proper strange not teaching.”

Zayn hums an agreement, eyes fluttering closed. Sameer’s learning his own voice, the sound of his hums as the music plays and it’s soothing. Overwhelming.

“It’ll be different,” Zayn says, grinning.

Liam pinches his wrist playfully but Zayn doesn’t flinch. He pushes back into the touch like it’s fleeting when he knows it’s not.

(They’ve talked it over a few times, cuddled under the shadows in Zayn’s bed while Sameer slept between them. Leaving London behind, starting it again in Wombourne. Liam taking up a gig doing studio production in Wolverhampton, finding work composing music for some indie film based in London.

Zayn tossing himself headfirst into his artwork. Bargaining a job as one of Louis’ clients now – a possible showing before the holidays. Finding his dreams again – under all of the silly silver and bronze at the bottom of a wishing pond.

Liam whispering a _‘we can move in to me old house and it’ll be just us – and Loki, but just us if you’d like?’_ and Zayn didn’t have to think about it all.

His decision was _easy_.)

“Haz and Ni are bloody chuffed ‘bout us coming in,” Liam remarks, casually.

Zayn gives an uncomfortable nod, feeling too dreamy to move his head from his forearm.

“Harry’s probably tidying up the house now,” he teases, his heart beating too loud at the sound of Liam’s manic laugh.

“Probably.”

“Bet Niall will be over every night when the pub shuts down,” Zayn adds, lips tickled higher. “Wanna know all about the films you’re working on. Keeping Sammy up too late.”

Liam sighs contently, dragging his fingers over Zayn’s knuckles. Something familiar comes over the radio, just a hint of _‘I think the universe is on my side heaven and earth have finally aligned’_ that leaks into Zayn’s bones.

“Not that long to Wombourne,” Liam whispers, thumbing at the ink along Zayn’s wrist. He traces out lazy shapes and Zayn smiles. He can’t help himself.

“No,” he mumbles, still focused on Sameer’s humming and Liam’s breathing and all of the little noises he never gave enough attention before.

“Home, Leeyum. It’s our _home_.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So hopefully this wasn't too long? I hope it wasn't a dull read either. It was a small idea and then it just grew into something epic. And I needed this - the challenge of writing it.
> 
> Thank you for any kudos, comments, or general feedback. You all will never know how truly grateful I am xx


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